


let my heart be your shelter

by smallbeans



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depressed Newt, Depressed Thomas, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, POV Newt, References to Depression, Thomas is a sweetheart, but he's not depressed anymore!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-15 13:38:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 68,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13614483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallbeans/pseuds/smallbeans
Summary: Newt is starting Glades College two weeks into the first term. After a year of dragging his life back together, Newt isn't looking forward to two years away from home and being surrounded by alcohol, drugs and danger. But Newt will come to learn that not everyone in the world is bad, and one specific, kind soul is going to restore Newt's faith in everything. All Newt has to do, is let him in.Or, Newt is damaged and determined not to fall in love, and Thomas is damaged and adorably irresistible.





	1. coming up for air

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Alone Too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7996618) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> No one is going to believe me when I say this orphaned work was mine before, but I'm going through major separation anxiety since the Maze Runner ENDED, so I just had to rewrite this.
> 
>  **title:** shelter by machineheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter title:** coming up for air by kodaline

******PART 1**

Newt has always been convinced he is not a normal teenager. He wonders sometimes, when he lays awake at night, if anything is actually  _real_. He wonders when one part of his life ends and another starts. If life is like a book, when do the chapters change? Who turns the pages, who writes the words?

Newt has always felt a lack of control over his life. He didn’t have control when his father left his mother and him and his sister were moved to a different country. He didn’t have control when the kids in the new American school pushed him into lockers and tripped him in the hallways. Newt has never known how to control his emotions, to control his words. He’s never had control over the voices in his head, the unanswered questions he obsesses over for hours. And the one question that always comes back to him, is who decides what is real or not?

Trees and buildings fly past outside the car window. Newt stares out, but he’s not really looking.

He hates fresh starts. Newt has never been good at meeting new people, about starting new relationships. Trust has never been his strong suit, and it’s something his mother always blames his father for.

"Are you okay, sweetie?" His mother asks.

Newt knows he should be embarrassed by his mother still calling him 'sweetie' when he’s nineteen, but he doesn’t have the energy. Worry is exhausting, and the anxiety riddling him like a live wire has drained him.

"M'fine," Newt replies, leaning his head against the cool glass. He is not looking forward to college.

His mother drives him all the way, parking in the public car park of Glades College, and insists on helping him get his bags out of the car.

"Mum," Newt sighs as he lugs his suitcase from the trunk of his mothers car, "Please, stop. This is just embarrassing now."

"Honey, don’t be ridiculous," his mother replies, her voice it’s normal high and cheery tone. She rounds the back of her car, coming to stand in front of him with his duffle and rucksack in her hands.

Newt shuts the trunk door with a heavy thud. "It’s bad enough I’m starting college two weeks into the semester. Please, don’t make this more humiliating by walking me to my room."

"It’s not that bad, Newt," his mother assures him, smiling. "You’ll make friends in no time."

Newt doesn’t believe that. He isn’t a child anymore. Making friends is as easy as training a blind dog to see.

"And since when have you been ashamed of your mother?" She exclaims, seeming genially hurt.

Newt sighs softly, "It’s always been embarrassing, mum. I just hate telling you that."

"Aw, my sweet boy," she beams, cupping his cheeks between her warm hands. "I’m so proud of you. Y’know that, right?"

"You tell me everyday, mum. Believe me, I know," Newt says, returning the smile and mentally praying no one could see them.

"I’m going to miss you so much," his mother whispers. She sounds so heartbroken, and it makes Newt’s heart ache.

"I’m going to miss you too, mum," he replies. "I’ll be back in a few months for your birthday, and Thanksgiving!"

The woman rolls her eyes, "We’re British, Newt. You know we don’t celebrate that stuff."

Newt finds himself able to laugh. "I know. But, it’s a good enough excuse to come home. Until then, I’ll call you as often as I can."

"I know you will," she smiles, dropping her hands. "Sonya’s going to be coming up in a few weeks, just to see how you’re doing."

Newt frowns instantly, "Checking up on me? Seriously, mom—"

"Not checking up on you," his mother interrupts, shaking her head. "There’s nothing wrong with your sister caring about your wellbeing."

"She’s checking up on me," Newt says arrogantly, lips pursed and jaw tight.

His mother rolls her eyes, sighing, "For the last time, Newt, Sonya is not 'checking up' on you. She’s just coming to visit. Nothing more, nothing less. She’s your sister, Newt. She wants to come and see the college life."

"She can do that in a years time when it’s her turn," Newt says. He instantly back-pedals when he sees his mother raise a sharp, trimmed eyebrow at him. "Okay, I’m sorry—"

His mother holds up a hand, "Uh— no! No apologises today. Today is a happy day."

Newt smiles, nodding, "Okay. Well, I. . . uh, better go and check in."

"Of course," his mother says, pulling him into a firm hug. "You’re all grown up. . ."

 _"Mum!"_  Newt whines, pulling back.

"I know, I know," his mother chants, "I’m sorry. Go on and get yourself check in."

Newt flashes his mother one last smile before he’s turning, grabbing his bags and walking towards the main building.

The campus is quiet, deserted of all people. Not a student in sight. Newt assumes it’s just because everyone is in classes or lectures.

He turns just before the building, and sighs at the sight of his mother, who’s still standing by her car. Deep down, Newt wants to do nothing but run back to her, jump back in her car and go home. But, he needs to grow up. He needs to stop relying on his mother and be a normal teenager.

And, with that thought in mind, Newt turns back to the building, and continues inside.

"Sam Newton," he introduces to the assistant at the desk.

The words that come out of his mouth make him cringe. There’s a reason he goes by Newt.

The girl, who doesn’t look any older than him, nods before typing something quickly on her computer. Her dark hair is tied back in a painfully tight doughnut bun, not a single strand loose. She has thick, jet black eyeliner painted on her eyes with a large, dramatic flick, making the shape of her eyes look sharp and thin.

She flashes him a kind smile, the action making Newt relax slightly. He puts the bags down on the floor either side of him, flexing his aching hands.

"Sam Newton, room 244, Westkey building," she reads.

Newt nods, and is about to ask where the Westkey building is, when the girl passes him a clear plastic folder over the counter top, a key and a map visible inside.

"There are instructions on the map to help you get to your dorm, just incase you didn’t know," the girl says, and despite her words, there is no hostility in her tone. She doesn’t sound condescending or patronising.

It’s a nice sound.

Newt smiles, picking up his bags, and ignoring the ache in his hands from the weight. He grabs the clear folder and turns away from the desk.

"Good luck!" The girl calls after him, and Newt waves his hand in reply.

Outside, Newt begins his journey to his new dorm. With the map in his hand, he tries to follow the non-too helpful lines that are meant to direct him where he’s meant to go.

He finds the Westkey building soon enough, though, by the time he makes it to the door, his arms are threatening to pop out of their sockets from the weight of his bags. When he walks into the building, it’s like walking into a block of flats. He feels like crying with relief at the sight of the elevator - room 244 is on the 5th floor, and there is no way he is going to be able to lug his bags up five sets of stairs.

When he steps out of the elevator and finds his room, it takes him a few minutes to find his key. He struggles to get it into the lock, with the bags weighing him down and his hands shaking. The door eventually opens with a soft click, and he shuffles in.

It’s small and basic. Two single beds on either side of the door, a desk at the foot of each and chest of draws on either side of the large window on the back wall. There’s another door on the right side of the room, between the space between the unoccupied bed and desk.

 _Cosy_ , Newt decides. It’s something his mother would say.

The left side of the room is obviously in use. The bed is rumpled, bed sheets thrown back. On the same side, the draws in the chest are open and overflowing, the floor is littered with clothes, so many it looks like a second flooring.

 _Great_ , Newt thinks,  _I’m living with someone who has never heard of organisation._

Newt has barely got his bags on his bed before the dorm room door bursts open. Newt jumps, yelping like a child.

The Asian in the doorway stops. He’s dressed in running shorts and trainings, his top damp with sweat, yet somehow his black hair looks untouched, whipped up and styled. On his arms, Newt can see tattoos of dozens of designs, roses and hearts, skulls and guns.

"You must be the new Greenie," he says. "Names Minho."

Newt frowns, "Greenie?"

"Nickname of the newbie," Minho shrugs, stepping into the room. He scoops up a discarded towel off the floor and a hand full of clothes from the draws. "I’m going for a shower. I’ll be back in a bit. Just. . . uh, y’know, make yourself at home, I guess."

Newt doesn’t have a chance to respond before Minho is crossing the room and disappearing through the door at the end of Newt’s bed.

 _Well, that could have gone worse_ , Newt supposes.

The blonde sets to unpacking, and lays his bags out on the bed. He sorts his clothes, folding them and organising them into his draws. He hangs his coats on the hooks on the back of the dorm door, but other than that, he has to squeeze everything into the draws. He organises his desk, setting out his books, pens and stationary. And, after a spared glance at Minho’s desk, which has no recognition of books or any kinds of class notes, he wonders what college life is really going to be like.

Finally, just when Newt is sliding his empty suitcase under his bed, the bathroom door opens and Minho walks out. Dressed in nothing but a towel that is wrapped loosely around his hips, Newt feels his eyes widen. The other males upper body is toned, muscled and chiselled. On his right breast, there is a paragraph of scripted writing, a dark ink stained on his tanned skin.

The open bathroom door allows a swarm of hot, moist air to flow into the bedroom, but Minho doesn’t seem fazed. Newt looks into the bathroom, a room that he imagines will look a lot more appealing when every surface isn’t fogged up by steam.

Newt sighs. He doesn’t want to pester Minho yet, who is grabbing a pair of boxers from his draws and sliding them on under the towel, but he can already feel himself becoming frustrated.

Minho passes him, grabbing his clothes he took in the bathroom with him and dresses quickly. When he comes back into the bedroom, he slings his wet towel on the back of his desk chair. Newt goes into the bathroom to place his toiletries, and when he goes back out, he’s surprised to find Minho looking at his books.

"Damn, Greenie," Minho says, looking up at him. He’s holding one of Newt’s law books, tossing it from hand to hand as if measuring the weight. "You’re going all out, aren’t ya, shank?"

Newt storms forward, snatching the book out of his hand.

"I want to succeed," Newt seethes, tone harsher than he expected. A bubble of hurt fills him, his skin prickling.

Minho chuckles, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He backs up, flopping down backwards onto his bed. "I was only looking, Greenie. No need to get touchy."

Newt sighs, putting the book down. He rubs a hand down his face. This is not a good start.

"Sorry," he apologises. "I just. . . I’m already two terms behind. I don’t want to fall behind."

"Eh, it’s alright," Minho shrugs, an arm thrown over his eyes. "I’m only teasing ya, shank."

"Shank?"

"Glader’s slang. You’ll pick it up soon enough, Greenie."

"My name is Newt."

"Newt?" Minho echoes. "What kind of a name is Newt?"

"A nickname. I don’t like my first one."

"Where did you get Newt from?"

"My last name is Newton."

"Like Isaac Newton."

"Yes, genius," Newt snarks. "Like Isaac Newton."

Minho laughs, loud and bold. Newt feels himself becoming more comfortable.

He eyes the ink on the other teens arms, "Are you allowed those?"

Minho’s arm slides off his eyes and he cranes his neck, looking up at Newt. "Huh?"

"You’re tattoos. Are they allowed? Aren’t they against some kind of school policy?"

"This isn’t high school. There isn’t a damn dress code," Minho chuckles, sitting up. He’s now dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a plain white short-sleeve. He looks at his bare arms, at the tattoos, and says, "It’s not like I need parental permission anyways. I’m an adult."

"Of course you are," Newt says. "I meant, don’t they want you to like. . . cover them up, or something?"

"Nah," Minho replies, wavy a hand. "I’ve been here for two years now. They don’t really bother you unless you’re a freshman."

Newt’s eyes widen, "This is your third year?"

"Yep," Minho quirks, popping the 'p'. "Came here to do mythology, but after my first year, I decided it wasn’t for me and moved onto an athletics course. Now, I’m training to be a personal trainer."

"Impressive," Newt says. "Why aren’t you in class now?"

"It’s not a full-time course," Minho shrugs. "I finish at two or three, and only have to do three days a week. The rest I can spend working or chilling."

Newt nods, then asks, "Do you think the law course is going to be full-time?"

"Yeah, my friends doing it. It’s not too heavy though, mainly just lectures and assignments. I think it goes part-time in the second year."

 _Lectures and assignments, I can handle that_ , Newt thinks to himself. He might even be able to get a job too, if he has enough spare time.

"Right, well, I’m going to go to class," Newt says, swiping up his leather messenger bag.

"Now? Greenie, it’s like three-thirty," Minho replies, "Classes are ending."

"I know, but I’m starting two terms late, so I need to find my teacher and get some work to catch up on. I must have missed loads."

Minho rolls his eyes, "Don’t bother with all that shuck, you’ll never find a teacher once classes break out. I’ll introduce you to Teresa, she’ll tell you everything you’ve missed."

"Teresa?"

"My friend who’s doing the same course as you. I’m meeting up with her and a few friends tonight at a pizzeria in town. You should come with, meet everyone."

"Thanks, Minho," Newt says, nodding.

 _This is good_ , he tells himself.  _He’s inviting you to meet his friends. This means he must like you._

"No problem, Greenie."

"I said my name is Newt."

"And if I said my name was Madonna, would you start calling me that?"

"Bloody hell," Newt sighs. "Fine,  _Madonna_."

The pizzeria is a restaurant that’s just outside of campus. The interior is decorated like a retro 1950’s American bar, with red leather booths and black and white tiles. The only drinks that are sold are milkshakes or water, and the only food they provide is, unsurprisingly, pizza.

When they walk in, Minho has a certain bounce to his step, as if he’s excited to be here. Newt watches as he trails behind, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders hunched high. He must look like a gloomy shadow in Minho’s wake, following behind like a dark cloud.

He’s always managed to stick out like a sore thumb, and it will be no struggle to do that in there.

Someone at the table seems to notice them as they walk in, a bell above their head chiming as the door opens.

"Minho!" They shout, and in unison, everyone at the booth turns to look at them, waving.

They approach the table, and Newt can feel his palms begin to dampen. Anxiety crawls up his back like a bug, a thousand legs tingling his skin like an itch. His heart pounds in his chest, he feels his cheeks redden. The blood roaring in his ears makes him feel dizzy.

Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be—

"This your new roomie, Minho?"

Newt seems to come back to himself. Everyone is looking at him. He counts five people, three boys and two girls. He can feel each pair of eyes on him, watching him, like predators hunting prey.

Minho nods from where he’s apparently rounded the table when he was greeting everyone.

"Everyone, this is Newt, the newest Greenie," Minho introduces. "Greenie, this is Frypan," he motions to a dark-skinned boy, with a thick build and short cut brown hair. "That is Winston and Gally," he nods to the two in the corner. One is a scrawny tanned guy, with dark hair and a crooked smile, and the other is a muscled guy with short blonde hair and curved eyebrows that catch Newt’s attention quickly. "And this, is Teresa and Brenda," Minho finishes, looking down at the two girls he’s standing beside. They both have dark brown hair, one a soft, brown tan and the other contrastingly pale.

They all wave, murmuring 'hello’s'.

Newt licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He jerks his hand in a stiff, awkward wave and mutters, "Uh, hi."

Minho drops down on the end of the leather-plump bench, next to the pale skinned girl. Newt follows in turn and sits down opposite him, on the end next to Frypan, who nods and Newt with a warm smile.

"Hey, T," Minho says, and when the girl next to him responds, he assumes the pale girl is Teresa. "Greenie’s on your law course with you."

Newt feels a pang of nausea in his stomach. He doesn’t know why. It hits him like a punch.

"Really?" Teresa says, looking pleased and excited. "Finally, someone who might actually be smart."

A round of defences sound.

"Hey!" Minho yelps, "Speak for yourself, shank."

Teresa laughs loudly, "You’re thick as shit, Minho. You wouldn’t last one minute in a law lecture."

"That’s because law is boring."

"Of course is it," Teresa muses. She looks back to Newt, "Don’t worry, Greenie, you haven’t missed much. Our professor is super laid back, you haven’t missed any assignment deadlines."

Newt nods. He feels the tension in his shoulders loosen like the rope around him has slacked.

Newt has never had a 'group' of friends. If he was ever in a group, it was with Harriet and Aris, but they are his sisters friends, so that doesn’t count. Newt has always been a lone wolf, but not in a cool way. But, chatting with Minho’s friends is surprisingly easy. Well, _they_ chat and Newt listens, but somehow, that still feels like he’s involved. They mostly talk about themselves, introducing themselves more than Minho did.

He finds out that Gally is studying to become a carpenter because he has loved building and architecture since he was a child. At first, Newt finds the boy slightly blunt, but when he appears to be cold to everyone, Newt doesn’t take it to heart. Winston explains that he is doing a biology course with two other kids they all know, Clint and Jeff, because he wants to be a doctor, and Frypan, who at first, Newt couldn’t figure out why they called him that, explains that he is doing a catering course.

"Hence, the nickname," he says, smiling.

Newt nods. He can’t exactly snark about nicknames.

"So, Newt," Brenda leans forward on her elbows, eyeing him from the other side of the table. She has a pizza slice in her hand - they’d ordered three pizza’s and milkshakes while everyone talked. "You have a interesting nickname."

Newt feels himself flush. "My last name is Newton."

Brenda’s eyes widen. "You’re British!" She yelps.

The heat in his cheeks intensifies. He laughs awkwardly. "Uh, yes."

"When did you move to America?"

"When I was 16," Newt explains. "Still haven’t gotten used to it."

They all laugh, and Newt feels slightly more at ease.

"Back onto the subject," Brenda chimes in, "You’re last name is Newton? What’s wrong with your first name?"

"I don’t like it," Newt replies. He doesn’t want to explain this. He doesn’t like talking about his father. Every word he speaks about the man leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. "I’ve always gone by Newt. The nickname’s just stuck, I guess."

"Hmm," Brenda hums, smiling. "Fair enough. Oddly, Newt somehow suits you."

If possible, Newt is sure he blushes even more. His cheeks must be glowing ruby red by now.

"Why do you want to do law?" Frypan asks.

Newt has always felt stumped at that question. So many people have asked, and so many times Newt has lied. He doesn’t want to lie to these people.

"I have no clue," he replies honestly. "I just. . . I needed to come to college, to do something, and people have always told me I’d be good at law."

Teresa hums. "You nineteen?"

Newt nods.

"Gap year?"

"Something like that," Newt mumbles. He’s not ready to talk about that yet.

"Don’t worry, Greenie," Teresa smiles, rolling her straw from her milkshake between her fingers. "We’re all nineteen. Well, apart from Minho. That old shank’s twenty!"

"Twent- _teen!"_  Minho corrects.

Teresa rolls her eyes. "The only ones of us who aren’t nineteen are Brenda and Tom."

This time, it's Brenda who rolls her eyes. "Stop making us sound like babies. We’re eighteen! Not even a whole year younger than you shanks. And anyway, I’ll be nineteen too soon."

Everyone laughs at Brenda’s outburst, and something catches Newt’s eye. He finds the small, blue butterfly tattoo on Brenda’s wrist, just before the curve of her bone.

"That’s pretty," Newt says, nodding towards her wrist.

Brenda looks down at it and smiles, "Thomas did it."

Newt frowns. That’s the second time he’s heard that name. "Thomas?"

"He’s a tattoo apprentice. I’m surprised you haven’t been told about him yet, as he’s Minho’s best friend," she says, frowning and turning to look at Minho, asking, "Minho, where’s Thomas?"

Minho pauses mid-conversation with Teresa. "Shank couldn’t get off work."

Brenda nods, and something about the action makes Newt assume this happens a lot.

"You can meet him soon," Brenda says, smirking. "He’s really great, I think you’ll like him a lot."

Newt isn’t sure what Brenda means by that, but it doesn’t settle well. Whoever this Thomas guy is, Newt is not going to let himself get attached. When Brenda spoke about him, she spoke with adoration in her eyes. It was unsettling. Newt knows people like this 'Thomas', and those are the people he can’t get involved with again. He spent a year of his life fooling around with people like that, and then a year recovering from the backlash of it. Never again. This is a fresh start. No attachments, no mistakes. He can’t get hurt again if he keeps distance.

"Hey, Greenie," Minho’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife, "New guy always pays."

Newt rolls his eyes, and throws a twenty on the table.

*****

"Come on, Sam," his voice is sly and smooth, sliding in his ears like a whistling wind.

He never called Newt by his nickname. He always called him Sam. He said it sounded better.

"Don’t you trust me?"

Newt nods, head bobbing as he is taken by the hand, lead dow the dark road. His head is spinning, mouth stuffed with cotton.

"Wait," he chokes out. He stumbles. He can see what is up ahead. "I don’t— I don’t want—"

"Come on, Sammy. Don’t be a buzzkill."

"N-no. Please, I don’t— I won’t—"

The hand on his wrist tightens. The fingers dig into his skin, grip so strong he can feel his bones grinding together. He flinches when the face that was previously shadowed by the night sky is suddenly inches from his own, their breath on his lips.

"You don’t have a choice," the voice is sharp, slicing through the air like a blade.

And then Newt is being pulled by the wrist.

He panics, digging his heels down. The soles scrape against the dirty, wet pavement.

"No! P-please! Let me go! STOP!"

Newt’s eyes snap open and he jackknifes up on the bed. His heart is racing like it’s on rocket fuel, pulsing a mile a minute. His cheeks are wet, his vision is blurry.

It was just a nightmare. Only a nightmare.

He clenches his fingers in his comforter, knuckles draining white. It only takes him a few minutes to calm down. His skin is slick with sweat, limbs trembling like he’s run a marathon. He’s still breathing hard, but at least he is no longer border lining a panic attack.

He’s surrounded by darkness, the only source of light being the white of the moon glowing through their window. It shines onto Minho’s bed like a spotlight, showing the sleeping teenager who, even during Newt’s fits of panic, has remained in his slumber.

This is why he didn’t want to come to college. He hasn’t gotten better. He’s still broken, he’s still weak.

He can’t settle. His skin is crawling; the bugs are back, their tiny legs dancing on his back. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the sadistic grin, the pearly white teeth before he is being dragged into the dark alley. The night permanently scarred into his mind, Newt throws back the covers and climbs out of bed. In the dark, he can barely see, but he manages to stifle through his draws and find a pair of trousers and tiptoes across the floor into the bathroom. He’s careful to not wake Minho, but is beginning to assume the male is likely to sleep through anything.

In the bathroom, Newt switches on the fluorescent light that stings his eyes. He leans against the worktop, hands either side of the sink, palms pressed against the cold surface. His head hands between his shoulders, chin resting on his chin.

He looks up and into the mirror, grimacing at the drying tear tracks and pallor to his skin. He looks dreadful, and that isn’t a look he needs on his first official day.

Switching on the shower, Newt strips his sweat-soaked pyjamas before stepping under the spray. The water is cold, the heat level dialled low. It’s a strange form of comfort, refreshing at the same time. The water washes away the sweat and grime that clings to his skin, rolling down the surface and dripping off, disappearing down the swirl of the drain.

He washes quickly, shampooing his hair with the coconut wash his mother packed him with. When he steps out, he turns off the shower and rushes to dry himself. Even locked in a room alone, Newt can’t stand the feeling of being naked. Too much is exposed, too many secrets he keeps hidden under the security of his clothes. He grimaces when the towel brushes over his wrist. Small, white lines stand out against the pale expanse of the inside of his forearm. Memories pour out of the thin scars like drops of blood. Memories of the pain and misery, the haunting and the shame. He can’t escape this. He can’t stand the sight of them, the sight of what happened.

Don’t let anyone know. Don’t let anyone in.

He dries and dresses quickly, sparing one last glance in the mirror. His skin is coloured with a flush, cheeks red, eyes vibrant. It’s an improvement. He feels lighter when he steps out of the bathroom.

The dorm is now aglow with the rising sun. Minho, who still looks half asleep, is battling a ringing alarm clock on his bedside cabinet.

"Morning," Newt says, as he walks out of the bathroom and tucks his pyjamas under his pillow, making his bed.

"Why are you up so early?" Minho asks, voice husky and slurred with sleep. He stretches on the bed, joints popping and cracking. Newt didn’t realise, but apparently the Asian slept topless, the covers having been thrown back so Newt can see the muscled lines and shadows of his torso and chest.

Newt flushes red, turning back to his bed. He needs to stop checking Minho out. "I— uh. . ." he stammers, taking a breath, "I'm an early riser."

Minho lets out a loud groan. "Why do  _I_  have to be roomed with a shucking early bird?"

Newt sighs loudly, seeping exasperation. He bites his tongue from snapping at Minho. The last thing he needs if for his roommate and his group of friends to hate him on his second day.

Minho grunts behind him, and when Newt looks over his shoulder at the other teen, he see’s Minho shuffling towards the bathroom with a handful of clothes.

 

Newt’s nerves are a whirlpool by the time he leaves the dorm. Minho had given him tight instructions the easiest way to his class, but even then, it’s confusing. The campus is _huge_ , like a town in itself. Newt has never had a good sense of direction, metaphorically and literally. He wonders how different it must be back in England - he really misses England sometimes.

He finds the lecture hall eventually, and when he does, he’s out of breath and chilled with a cold sweat beading on his back. He’s hand are shaking when he pushes the door open. The auditorium is empty, he must be early. He see’s a teacher behind the desk at the front, flipping through some paper.

"Uh, excuse me," Newt says lamely.

The man behind the desk looks up. He has a long face, a shorn stubble of brown and grey hair shadowing his chin and lower cheeks. He smiles, "Can I help you?"

"I’m meant to be starting your class today. I’m Sam—"

"Sam Newton," the professor finishes for him, flashing him a smile. He stands up, rounding his desk and approaching Newt in the doorway. The older man grabs his hand eagerly, shaking it firmly. "I’m Professor Janson. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard all about your achievements, it’s an honour to have you in my class."

Newt smiles awkwardly. He didn’t expect the preach from a teacher he’s only just met. He also isn’t sure how Professor Janson knows about his high school 'achievements', but he assumes it’s probably all on his application. He did well in his finals, and was his years valedictorian, but he doesn’t know how much of that matters in college.

"Uh. . . thank you, sir. It really isn’t. . . that much of an honour," Newt stammers, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"Oh, don’t talk nonsense," Janson smiles, "You’re the only student in my class with achievements that high. You should be proud."

Before Newt can contemplate a verbal reply, the lecture hall door behind him and students pour in.

"Where should I sit?" Newt asks.

"Anywhere. You don’t have assigned seats," Janson replies, before he’s walking back to his desk.

Newt turns around, spotting Teresa just as she sits on the second row of tables and chairs. He wonders over, waiting for her to notice him, and when she does, her face brightens up and she waves him over.

"Hey, Greenie," she says when he’s crab-walking sideways between the seats and the fold-down tables towards her.

Newt sighs, "I thought it’s only Minho who calls me that."

"It’s the name was the newest Glader," Teresa smiles. "Everyone is going to call you that."

"Great," Newt huffs. He motions to the chair beside her, "Can I. . .?"

"Of course," Teresa replies, patting the seat.

Newt drops down in the chair, gets out his notepad, just in time for Janson to start talking.

*****

"Greenie," Minho says as he walks into their dorm, the door slamming shut behind him. Newt flinches, the sound harsh and sudden, disturbing his peaceful studying. "The group and I are going to a pub outside college. I need you to pack up tour dork-y-ness and kiss your books goodbye because tonight, my friend, you are going to act like an actual college student."

Newt spins around from where he is working at his desk. "A pub?"

"Yeah, shank. WCKD, best place to drink in all of Manhattan!"

"I can’t," Newt says. "I have too much work to get done, and not enough time."

"Everyone has work to do, Greenie. That’s the life of a college student," Minho says as he raids the clothes hung up on the back of the door, flicking through them like pages in a book. "You’re working too hard."

Newt shakes his head. "I—"

"Stop being boring!" Minho interrupts, laying out some clothes out on his bed, before moving to Newt’s side of the room.

Moments later, a handful of clothes are hitting Newt directly in the face and flopping on his lap.

"Get dressed," Minho says. "We leave in ten."

 _Does this count as peer pressure?_ Newt wonders as he gets dressed. Apparently, peer-pressure is an anonymous thing to Minho, as he persistently tells Newt that he is a 'nerd' and needs to get a taste of the wild college life he is depriving himself of.

They leave twenty minutes later, ten of which Minho is fussing over his hair, adding ridiculous amounts of product to it, and then lecturing Newt on how important his hair is.

The WCKD pub isn’t too far out of college. Only a fifteen minute drive, in a normal car, anyway. It takes Minho seven minutes, as he seems to believe speeding limits are only 'optional'.

"No one drives that slow these days, Greenie," he tells Newt.

When they walk into the pub, it’s like walking into an airbag. Hot air swarms them, the atmosphere thick but somehow it isn’t suffocating. The dark wooden interior looks old, stylish and retro. It’s dimly lit, with hanging bar lights dangling down from the ceiling. There are speakers hung in the corners of the room, a song playing through, the low bass and shaking, vibrating through Newt’s chest. There are leather chairs, round tables and stools. The bar is stretched along the back wall, accessible from three sides. There are two people behind the bar, wizzing around eachother like flies. They move with a flow, filling up glasses and sliding them across the wooden counter top to their buyers.

"Minho! Newt!"

Newt drags his attention away from the bar and follows Minho’s direction towards the corner, where Teresa, Frypan, Winston and Gally all sit in cushioned leather chairs and a old couch.

"Glad you guys could finally make it," Teresa says, smirking.

"Yeah, and you’re actually in one piece," Frypan chimes in. "Ay, Minho, haven’t killed Newt yet with your driving skills yet?"

A chorus of laughter rings out.

"Shut up," Minho scowls. "You all got your drinks yet?"

"We’ve been here for almost an hour already, buddy."

"Right," Minho says, turning to Newt. "Come on, Greenie, there’s someone I want you to meet."

They walk together to the bar, which is significantly emptier than when Newt last saw it. Minho leans against the wooden top, which - to Newt’s surprise - isn’t sticky with split alcohol.

The bartender turns to them, and Newt feels like his breath gets literally stuck in his throat.

The combination of feathered brown hair, so soft and upturned, and the constellation of moles scattering along his cheeks and down his neck provide the perfect vision in Newt’s head. He looks at the pale skin, milky white, that contrasts so complimentarily with his whiskey, golden eyes. 

"Minho, my man," he says, raising a hand and clapping it against Minho’s. He smiles, white teeth shining and eyes lighting up.

"How you doing, shank?" Minho asks, grinning from ear to ear. Newt doesn’t think he’s ever seen Minho grin like that.

"Could be better," he shrugs, the rag on his shoulder sifting slightly, before he turns to Newt. "You must be Newt. I’m Thomas."

Oh shit.

Newt feels his breath hitch. So  _this_  is the famous Thomas. Newt doesn't realise he is staring Thomas directly in the face, until the brunette teen starts laughing nervously, looking at Minho before shaking a hand in front of Newt’s face.

"You okay there, Greenie?" Minho asks teasingly, laughing.

Newt blinks. "Uh— yeah. It’s. . . uh, nice to me you, Thomas."

Thomas smiles, "What can I get you two?"

"Half a pint," Minho answers without a beat, but there’s no need, as Thomas is already filling up a glass. He slides it towards the Asian in one smooth motion, before looking at Newt again.

"Uh— the same, p-please," Newt stammers, and inwardly slaps himself. Does he always have to make everything so awkward?

Thomas smiles, none the less, gleaming and happy as he fills up another glass to the top, and places it on the wooden counter without spilling a single drop.

It’s then, that Newt notices the tattoo’s covering the pale skin of his bare forearms. There are vines, crawling, curling like a spiral up his arms, disappearing under his sleeves, decorated with thorns and roses. There are other tattoo’s drawn in-between, some smaller, some with little or extensive detail. One thing that stands out, is that there is no colour. Each tattoo are draw in different shades of black and grey, different tones, but not a single spec of colour.

"You like tattoos?" Thomas asks.

Newt blinks. He was staring again. "Oh— uh, yeah. They’re. . . okay."

_Lame. You are so lame._

"You should come by the parlour sometime," Minho says, chugging a greedy gulp of his beer. "Thomas could draw you up something."

"No thanks," Newt says, forcing himself to take a sip of his own drink. He doesn’t really like beer, but it’s too late now. Plus, he doesn’t want to make a bad impression by being fussy. He doesn’t want to be a 'buzzkill'. "I don’t like needles."

"Fair enough," Thomas shrugs, flashing him a smile. "First time I put a needle to Minho’s skin, he yelped like a girl and fainted in the chair."

"I did _not_ faint!" Minho hisses, but Thomas just chuckles at him. "When do you finish?"

Thomas looks at the clock on the wall behind him. "Half an hour," he replies, turning to face them again. "Brenda’s coming in in fifteen. If she’s in a good mood, she might let me off early."

Minho nods, grabbing his glass. He nods a mock-salute to Thomas before guiding Newt back to their corner.

The discussions between the group is light and cheery, reliving already embarrassing college memories they shared before Newt came along. Newt doesn’t contribute much when they start talking about high school. Instead, he just sips his beer that burns his throat and makes him physically want to gag. But, he needs to something, so he drinks it anyways. Pubs, group gatherings, memories and alcohol, are not Newt’s things. The whole occasion makes him feel overwhelmed, shaky and paranoid. He’s made a habit of keeping himself out of large crowds, yet, here he is; not even through his first week and he’s already in a damn pub.

"Want a refill?"

Newt’s eyes snap up to see Thomas standing above him. He looks relaxed, shirt sleeves rolled up and a pair of skinny jeans that cling in all the right places. Unfortunately (and fortunately), Newt is the exact height of Thomas’ crotch.

Newt blushes vigorously, realising he’s staring again. "N-no, thank you."

Thomas nods with an easy laugh and sits down in the cushioned arm chair next to him. He sighs when he sits down, slumping into the old, worn leather cushion. He has a beer bottle in his hand, his long, thin fingers loosely clasped around the bottle neck.

"Thomas!" Teresa shrieks with glee, before she is rising from her own chair and leaping into his lap.

Thomas barely manages to juggle Teresa and his own bottle, while avoiding the chair tipping backwards from the momentum of Teresa’s added weight. The teen chuckles, a delicacy to Newt’s ears, and says, "Hey, T."

"Aren’t you meant to be working?" Teresa asks. Her voice is high and slurred, evidently border-lining drunk. How much has she drunk?

"Brenda’s being an angel and let me off early," Thomas replies easily.

Teresa, surprisingly, pouts, "But, Tom," she whines, "I need you behind the bar so you can pour me free drinks!"

"Brenda can get you free drinks too, T."

Teresa gapes, "Yay!" She squeals, jumping up and dashing to the bar.

Thomas shakes his head, laughing and muttering, "Not that she needs anymore free drinks."

Newt watches Teresa skip up to the bar, feeling the bitter stir of jealously in his stomach—  _woah_ , Newt reels. Where did that come from?

"So, Newt," Thomas starts, slouching back against his chair. Newt tries not to think too hard about Thomas calling him by his name and not the common 'Greenie'. "Where you from?"

"Boston," Newt says.

Thomas rolls his eyes, " _Originally_. I recognise the accent. British, right?"

Newt nods. "Yeah. Moved here when I was sixteen."

"Damn. Liking America?"

"Been here for three years and still can’t get used to it."

Thomas laughs. "You probably never will, buddy."

Newt finds himself smiling. "Where are you from?"

"Born and raised in Chicago. Moved to Queens when I was twelve."

Newt is about to speak, to ask why they moved, when Minho cuts him off.

"Hey, Thomas, Greenie here wants to be a lawyer!" Minho says as he sits down on the couch opposite them.

"Oh, really?" Thomas looks impressed. An unfamiliar pride swells up in Newt’s chest.

He nods.

"That’s cool, man," Thomas smiles. "I’d love to have that kind of life plan."

"I wouldn’t call it a 'life plan'," Newt dejects, cheeks blushing vigorously.

"More planned than mine. I don’t even know what I’m doing next week," Thomas laughs, and Newt laughs too. It’s contagious; like when someone yawns, and you feel the need to yawn too. That’s what Thomas’ laugh does, but not in the annoying way.

"Do you have any ideas on what you want to do as a career?" Newt asks, trying desperately to make conversation, and actually finds himself becoming curious. Thomas looks like an intelligent, curious guy. But, he is also covered in tattoos and works in a bar.

"I have no clue," Thomas sighs. "There’s loads of things I’d love to do, but nothing really interests me enough. I don’t know," he shrugs, taking a small sip of his beet, "I don’t think I’ve found my place yet."

Newt nods, understanding. Sonya is like that - she has no idea what she wants to do with her life, yet she is also so capable of doing anything in the world. It is almost like she has too much choice, too many options and opportunities, making it impossible to decide.

Newt only just notices that Minho has left, and is now standing with the group by a retro game box machine. Shouts of victory and frustration come off them in sudden cheers and cries.

"I’m gonna go and get another drink. Want one?" Thomas asks, beginning to get up from his chair.

Newt looks at his empty glass, debating if he wants to drink more. The logical part of his mind tells him he’s already drank too much, and he shouldn’t allow himself to fall into the trap and uncontrollable alcoholism. The other part of him tells him to go for it, just so he can keep talking to Thomas.

"Sure," Newt says. He gets up as well and follows Thomas through the pub, weaving through the crowd towards the bar. Thomas moves with a certain smoothness, his long, skinny limbs moving with fluency and grace, not a single fault in his steps.

Newt barely manages to resist staring at the teens ass as he walks.

At the bar, Thomas leans on the wooden top with crossed forearms. Newt stands next to him, arms dangling awkwardly at his sides.

Brenda steps up. Her brown hair is tidier than the day before, reaching down to her shoulders now it’s been straightened.

"Hey, Thomas," she says, and then nods in Newt’s direction, "Greenie."

"Hey, Bren. Fancy supplying a couple more free drinks?" Thomas asks, tone light and friendly.

"Hmm," Brenda hums, looking at Thomas sharply. Her lips spread into a sly, half-smirk, "Fine," she says, and then turns to Newt, "What’s your poison, Greenie?"

"What?" Newt startles, slightly confused and horrified.

Thomas chuckles, "He’ll take a pint’a cider. Something fruity."

Brenda nods and dashes off.

Newt looks at Thomas suspiciously. "How do you know I like cider?"

"You didn’t look like you were enjoying that beer," Thomas says, and then shrugs, "Plus, everyone likes cider."

Newt feels his face burn red with embarrassment. He hadn’t realised his discomfort was _that_ evident on his face. "I—"

"It’s okay," Thomas laughs gently, "I don’t really like beer either. I just drink it to look manly, but I actually prefer wine."

Something glows up in Newt when he realises Thomas is opening up, telling him things he probably wouldn’t tell strangers. It makes a warmth spreads through his chest.

"I like wine too," he says lamely.

Brenda comes back with the drinks, placing down two glasses of rose, red liquid. When Newt drinks, he recognises strawberry cider; his favourite.

"Oh my God," Thomas says suddenly, "I love this song!"

Newt listens closely, recognising  _LANY_  singing 'Bad, Bad, Bad'. "You like LANY?"

"Love them!" Thomas replies, beaming. "Minho hates them. He’s always moaning I play their 'soppy, loving shit'."

Newt gasps, smacking a hand over his heart, "How dare he? Paul Klein is not soppy!"

Thomas throws his head back and laughs, "Tell me about it."

"That is bloody atrocious."

"You’re so British."

Thomas takes a sip of his cider, still chuckling. He pulls out a bar stool, sitting down on it and continuing to rest his arms on the bar counter. Newt follows in suit, feeling more comfortable on the stools at the bar than the low, old sofa’s in the corner.

"What other music do you like?" Thomas asks, "'Cause if you like LANY, then you obviously have amazing music taste."

And that, is how Newt becomes wrapped in long, trailing conversation that escalates from the topic of music, to movies, to hobbies, to embarrassing childhood memories.

Newt feels like he’s known Thomas his entire life. The tattooed teen is so easy to talk to, conversations never ending, but also never crossing the boundary into personal or raw subjects. Thomas has more in common with Newt than he expected; their music taste is almost identical, both share a love for classic movies and reading books. Newt also finds out that Thomas is interested in art, and has been doing it since he was old enough to hold a pencil. Apparently he began working at a tattoo parlour when he was fifteen, the place being owned by a friend, and has worked there ever since - despite it being in Queens and the Glades college being in Manhattan.

Newt is insanely wrapped in, curious and intrigued by Thomas’ life and stories, despite still feeling like there’s so much more to find out.

By the end of the night, they’re both borderline drunk, and giggling like school girls as Newt retells the story about how he stained his entire body blue two days before his Aunts wedding.

*

True to his mother’s word, Sonya comes up two weeks after he starts at Glades College. In that time, Newt learns that alcohol is the best and the worst thing possibly invented.

After a night at the pub again, drinking cider with Minho and the group (Thomas wasn’t there, apparently he was working at the tattoo parlour), Newt wakes up with regret. He’s woken from his alcohol-induced sleep by a loud banging that rumbles against the wood of his dorm door. It takes him a few minutes to realise it’s someone knocking, and by then, the banging is louder. Minho is passed out in the bed across from him, so Newt has no choice but to answer the door. Thankfully, the nob of the door handle is on his side of the room, and he can reach it if he reaches from his bed.

The door swings open, and Newt is surprised to see Sonya in the doorway.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Newt asks, but it comes out muffled and slurred from where his face is half pressed into the pillow. He can feel a headache forming behind his eyes, a pulsating throb. The sight of his sister doesn’t make it any better.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sonya asks, stepping inside and shutting the door behind her. Her eyes are wide when they rack him up and down, taking in his rumpled jeans and t-shirt he slept in from the day before.

"I asked you first," Newt mumbles childishly, pulling his covers up and over his body, tucking them under his chin.

Sonya rolls her eyes, unraveling the red and blue checkered scarf she has wrapped around her neck. "I thought mum told you I’d be visiting."

"Yeah, but she didn’t say this early!" Newt whines, yanking the covers even further up and burying his head underneath them.

"Newt, it’s 12 o’clock in the afternoon."

Newt snatches the covers off his head, his hair falling in his eyes as he looks at the clock on his bedside cabinet.  **12:04PM**.

Shit.

Newt sighs, burying his face in his pillow. "Sonya, I—"

"Are you hungover?"

"No. I—"

"Oh, God, Newt," Sonya sighs, rubbing her eyes. "You’ve been at college for two weeks and you’re already pulling this crap?"

"It’s not like that," Newt grumbles, but it comes out garbled and muffled from the pillow in his mouth. "We just went to the pub to hang out. I didn’t even drink that much—"

He’s cut off by Minho’s loud grunting, shifting on the bed. Newt lifts his head in time to see Minho’s eyes opening into slits, squinting at Sonya.

"Who the shuck is this?" He grounds out.

"This is Sonya. She’s my sister," Newt says, and flops on his back. "Sonya, this is Minho, my roommate."

Sonya waves, but her mouth shifts into tight line when Minho just grunts back.

"It’s too early for this klunk. Take your family reunion somewhere else," and then he’s rolling over, pulling the covers up and over his face with a exasperated huff.

Sonya doesn’t look impressed.

Newt sighs, "Wait outside. I’ll get dressed and be out in a few."

He throws back the covers and rolls out of bed, ignoring the punch of nausea in his stomach as he grabs some clean clothes out of his draws. He doesn’t wait for Sonya’s response before he exits into the bathroom.

When he comes back out, freshly clothed and face washed, Minho is sitting up in bed and chuckling with Sonya, who’s spinning in Minho’s desk chair.

Oh, _brilliant_ , Newt dreads. He crosses the room, shoving his clothes into the washing basket and asks, "What are you guys laughing at?"

"Minho was just telling me about how you can’t handle your alcohol," Sonya says, giggling.

"What?" Newt snaps. "I can handle my alcohol!"

Minho snorts, eyes closed. "No, Greenie, you can’t. You got wasted on cider."

"Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Hardcore. Look who’s hungover on beer!"

Minho looks at him sharply.

"Newt has never been good at drinking," Sonya says. "He used to get tipsy on just one bottle of Kopparberg—"

"Sonya!" Newt shrieks, but the sound of his own voice hurts his ears.

Minho is still laughing when Newt pushes Sonya out of the room and slams the door behind them.

They go to a small coffee hut just outside of the campus. They get a window seat around a around table, or two coffees and two slices of cake (despite the sight making Newt want to gag).

Sonya, typically, asks all the questions about college, about how he’s settling in class, what they’re like and all the friends he’s made. Newt feels strangely self-conscious talking about it, but does his best to include all the good parts.

It takes a surprising amount of effort  _not_  to spend the entire time talking about Thomas.

Newt is sipping his coffee when Sonya abruptly asks, "Have you spoken to George?"

The question catches Newt off guard. He should have expected it, really, considering his sister’s worry for him. But, the question still makes all the blood drain from his face, his heart racing behind his ribs and hands beginning to tremble around the mug.

"No," Newt says. He almost chokes on his words, "Why?"

Sonya shrugs, but Newt can see the tension in her expression. "He came by the other day, asking to speak to you."

Newt swallows thickly, breath coming in choppy. "What did you say?"

"Me and Harriet told him to go fuck himself, and Aris chased him down the street with a broom," Sonya says, speaking in a monotone like she’s listing history facts, like it’s no big deal!

Newt can’t help but chuckle at the thought of scrawny, skinny Aris chasing someone and screaming like a madman, a broomstick clasped in his hands. The tension drains from his shoulders slightly.

"It was quite funny actually," Sonya chuckles, "Aris chased him all the way to Roxbury before he lost him," Sonya pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is gentle and soft, "How have you been feeling?"

Newt knew the unspoken words behind the question. Sonya, really, was asking if he felt depressed, or suicidal, or alone or paranoid.

"Fine," Newt says. He barely manages to avoid choking on the lie.

"Newt," Sonya leans forward, eyes wide and lips drawn down in a sad frown, "you can tell me if something’s wrong. You can trust me."

"I know," Newt says, "And you can trust me when I say I am fine."

Sonya looks at him like she doesn’t believe him. Her eyes shine bright with concern.

"Okay," she finally replies, flashing a smile, "As long as you’re sure."

*****

Newt is beginning to realise that professor Janson’s lectures really _are_ a waste of time. The man seems to babble about complete nonsense, then snap out of his superior topic to ask a completely random question to leave a student confused and stuttering. Worst of all, Janson seems to find this incredibly amusing.

Apart from the jack-ass personality, Janson is actually a very intellectually profound professor. All the time he isn’t babbling nonsense, Newt finds his lectures very interesting, and sometimes educational.

It’s Newt fourth week since he started and so far, he thinks he’s dealing. The work load hasn’t been too heavy, and so far, the assignments have been piss-easy (if you count staying up all night to finish them as 'piss-easy'). He hasn’t got any worries about his college work, but instead, about the girl who he sits next to.

The more time Newt spends with Teresa, the more he begins to develop a jealous, irresistible urge to slam her head into the table. In almost every conversation, no matter the topic, Teresa manages to find a way to bring up Thomas. It’s infuriating, and secretly convenient. Newt likes hearing about Thomas, who’s tattoos are imbedded into his memory, and the sight of his beaming smile when he found out Newt liked _LANY_. Newt has been at college for a whole month, and so far he’s only seen Thomas once. Every time they’ve all met up, Thomas has been busy working, but the single memory they have shared together is like a treasure in Newt’s mind.

Newt isn’t sure if he’s angry or relieved in his suspicions of Teresa and Thomas dating, because if Thomas is taken, it means he is in no position to make a move on Newt, which is technically what the Brit boy wants. But, at the same time, the thought of Thomas being bound to Teresa makes Newt’s hairs stand on end.

Newt pushes away any and all thoughts from his mind about the brunette boy, when he walks out of the lecture theatre. He quickly makes a dash to escape Teresa and practically runs back to his dorm.

He tries to tell himself this is for the best. He can’t be with Thomas, he can’t be with anyone. Not after what happened last time. Newt has to stay away, not let anyone in. Friends, and  _only_  friends.

Newt is once again divided by his past and his wants.

*****

It takes them over a month to ask him about his limp. He tells them he broke it when he was playing football, or as they refer to it, playing 'soccer'. He doesn’t know if they believe him, but they don’t ask again. And a good thing too, because he isn’t ready to explain what happened.

He counts it as a win.

*****

Newt has been staring at his computer screen for almost forty minutes now.

His mind is as blank as fresh paper, uncooperative. He’s never known Google to be so useless, giving him absolutely no inspiration or ideas for his mothers birthday present.

His mothers birthday is almost two months away, but it very well could take _that_ _long_ for Newt to find something and have it delivered.

He is at a complete loss. He’s never been good at choosing and buying presents, he never knows what to get people because he isn’t good at seeing what they need. His mother is especially difficult to buy for as the because doesn’t do anything. She likes baking - but Newt buys her a cooking book for her birthday and Christmas every year - and gardening, which Newt knows nothing about. He wouldn’t know what to buy her from a gardening centre, so that idea is ruled out. He also can’t go down the easy feminine route of bath bombs - his mother doesn’t bathe. She showers, always justifying 'I refuse to sit in a pool of my own dirty water and call it cleaning'.

He shoves his laptop away.

"What would you get your mother for her birthday?" He asks Frypan one day. The pair are sitting outside in one of the food courts, catching lunch and eating their way through some sandwiches because everyone else is in class.

Frypan looks slightly surprised at the abrupt question, but Newt figures that’s fair, considering he just rudely cut the other boy off from talking about whatever he was talking about. Newt wasn’t listening, but he’s desperate.

"I usually just buy her flowers and some chocolate," Frypan shrugs, "I don’t have a job, so money is usually an issue. She understands, s’thought that count, right?"

Newt groans, dropping his head into his hands.

That isn’t going to work - his mother is  _loaded_. If he ever needs money, all he has to do is ask and boom, his bank is a hundred-dollars fuller.

"Okay," he raises his head, "If you had money, what would you buy your mum?"

Frypan seems to chew on his for, eyes drifting as if he’s in deep thought. He’s silent for a full three minutes before he says, "Bath bombs."

Newt drops his head onto the metal table top with a thud, narrowly missing heat-butting his sandwich.

 

His mothers birthday is at the end of November, and this year, it falls perfectly into the week of Thanksgiving.

Him and Minho are both in their dorm, Minho having just got out the shower and flopped on his bed, and Newt at his desk, still browsing for present ideas. So far, Amazon hasn’t been at all helpful and once again, his mothers lack of hobbies or adorations has made the whole experience painfully difficult.

"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" He ask, breaking the silence between them. The thought of Thanksgiving has been playing on his mind for a few weeks now. It’s still over a week away, but Newt doesn’t know what everyone does around the time in college.

"Going home," Minho says, "Seeing the family in the day, and then going out for drinks with Thomas in the evening."

"Drinks with Thomas?" Newt echoes, turning away from his computer and spinning in desk chair so he’s facing Minho. He frowns, coffee in hand, the warmth burning through the cardboard flask and heating his palms. "Why?"

"Thomas lost his mother when he was younger, and never knew his dad," Minho shrugs, nonchalant as if he was justifying why he went for a run in the morning. "He see’s Monica and Teresa during the day, and then we go out and get drunk in the evening."

Newt feels his eyes widen. "His mum— but— and his dad isn’t?"

"His father is basically as good as dead as far as Thomas is concerned," Minho says, speaking in a tone that drips with bitterness.

Thomas is a. . . orphan?

Newt feels shocked.

Thomas is so bright, so positive, and an orphan. The label doesn’t fit his personality at all. Newt has never met an orphan, but how can someone be as happy as Thomas is when  _that_ happens to him?

"Monica?" Newt asks, "Who’s that?"

"His adoptive mother. Teresa’s mom."

Newt drops his cup of coffee. He doesn’t acknowledge the splash of hot, staining liquid onto the floor, spilling over the wood in a growing puddle.

"Teresa’s  _mum?_  They’re  _siblings?!"_

Minho, who had been staring wide eyed at the spillage on the floor, looks up at Newt with a deadpanned expression. "Are you stupid?"

Newt sputters, flabbergasted. "I thought they were dating!"

Minho stares at him for a long moment, and then bursts out laughing.

Newt stares at the boy who he’s never imagine to be on the floor, choking on his own wheezy laughter, hands clapping like a seal. He didn’t think he’d see that, ever.

He feels a sudden fury sing through his veins. This isn’t funny.

"I’m serious!" He yells. "I swear they are dating!"

That only seems to make Minho laugh harder, wheezing like his lungs are being physically squeezed.

Newt doesn’t understand what is so hilarious, nor does he understand how he has managed get siblings mixed up with dating. The whole thing has just turned into one massive cluster-fuck, and Newt isn’t sure what to do with himself now.

"You’re such a stupid shank," Minho wheezes, his face red and blotchy from the lack of air he’s been taking in, "d’you know that?"

Newt rolls his eyes, grabbing a towel from the end of his bed and dumping it on the coffee puddle.

"Shut up, Madonna."

Newt can’t stop thinking about Thomas that night. He can’t get his head around the blatant fact that Thomas is an _orphan_. He can’t imagine the boy being so hurt, so ruined by something so awful as to watching a parent die. Newt understands how it feels to have a father leave - his own walked out when he fifteen, throwing his world into the wringer. But, Newt can’t even fantom the feeling of his mother dying and leaving him too. The very thought threatens to bring tears to his eyes.

Newt doesn’t sleep much that night. He tosses and turns, his mind alive and buzzing like it’s giddy with alcohol.

 

The next day, when Newt is walking across campus having just finished Janson’s morning lecture, when he spots a glimpse of black tattoos and brown, fluffy hair. He hurries, weaving through a sea of students gathered around the foodcourt.

"Thomas!" He shouts, breaking through the last wall in the swarm of people. "Thomas!"

The boy turns around, expression uncertain as if he’s not sure someone was calling him specifically. When his eyes meet Newt’s, his footsteps slow to a stop.

Newt tries not to think about how breathtaking Thomas looks in a simple pair of worn black skinny jeans, boots, and a navy plaid shirt. It looks like it’s been thrown together, yet works like it’s planned.

"I— uh. . ." Newt trails off. He can’t think straight, not when Thomas is standing there with a faint smile, a small quirk of his lips. He is blinding, breathtaking, and Newt _seriously_ needs to stop thinking like that. "Wh-why didn’t you tell me about. . . about your parents?"

"My. . . parents?" Thomas frowns, eyebrows pinching. "What about them?"

"You— why didn’t you tell me?" Newt asks. He can’t believe the words are tumbling from his mouth. Why is he asking Thomas this? He swallows thickly, throat dry. He can’t stop himself. "About being an orphan."

This is the worst thing he’s ever done. He’s only met Thomas once, and now, after not seeing him for almost a month, he’s actually confronting Thomas about his dead parents. He can’t see any hurt in Thomas eyes, he doesn’t know how he’s masking it so well. He also doesn’t know how sore the subject is - just because it wasn’t years ago, doesn’t mean it doesn’t ache the same. Newt still sometimes cries about his own father walking out, and that was almost five years ago.

To his surprise, Thomas actually chuckles. "Was it something I should have mentioned?"

"No," Newt hurries to say, practically shouting the word, "I just—"

Thomas is smiling, soft and gentle.

Why the fuck is he smiling?

"It isn’t the type of thing I bring up in the first conversation," He says, shrugging highly, and  _shit_  - that’s a good point.

Him and Thomas have only ever spoken once. Why would he have told Newt about his dead parent?

Embarrassment washes through him like a second blood. He can feel his cheeks burning. "I— . . . I’m sorry, Thomas. I didn’t—"

"It’s fine, dude. Really," Thomas says, shaking his head and stopping Newt from humiliating himself further. "I didn’t really think it mattered. It was a long time ago."

"No— yeah. I totally get that," Newt stammers. He’s sweating and it isn’t because of the disappearing summer heat. His heart is hammering because if Thomas hadn’t reacted so well to his rude poking into his life, then Newt could have lost a friend before he really made one.

"Don’t sweat it, buddy," Thomas says again. He’s being seriously calm about this whole thing, still smiling and waved a hand as if to physically wave it off. "Look, I gotta get to work, but we should meet up soon. All of us, yeah?"

"R-right. Yeah, totally," Newt stutters. His heart sinks slightly.  _All of us_. Thomas wants to meet in a  _group_.

Newt is not going to lie - the statement hurts a little bit - nor is he going to ever admit that to anyone.

Thomas is walking away a moment later, shouting a rushed goodbye over his shoulder, leaving Newt standing in the courtyard, head spinning.

What the fuck did he just do?

 

The whole group go out for drinks at the WCKD bar a few days later. Thomas comes, apparently finally having the night off. He’s the last to arrive, and Newt is already trapped in the corner between Teresa and Frypan, so he feels like he can’t be mad when Thomas sits with Minho and Brenda.

Thomas doesn’t mention Newt’s fuck-up. He laughs and drinks, and flashes Newt smiles that haven’t changed since they first met each other.

All feels forgiven, despite Newt still feeling like a mega jackass.

*****

Newt has always had a good work ethic. He flew through high school, passing every class with no real effort. He studied because had nothing else to do, but he didn’t really need to. He scored the highest scores in the whole school.

So, why the  _hell_  can't he finish this assignment?

He’s been working on it all day, and by all day, he means  _all day_. He woke up at the crack of dawn, taking the advantage of his day off, and threw himself into the work of Professor Janson’s demon assignments. But, no matter how much coffee he drinks or how many times he rereads his classroom notes, his mind is blank and useless like a crumbled bit of paper.

Minho, who has just got back from a run and must apparently be getting annoyed with the sound of Newt gnawing on his pen and frustration groans, suddenly snaps, "Shucking hell! Stop your whining and go to Teresa’s place. She’s in your class, she can help you with your shucking essay!"

"It’s a report," Newt corrects heatedly, but then he sighs, defeated. There’s no pointing arguing when Minho’s right. "Fine. I’ll text her now.

He grabs his phone, swiping it off the edge of his desk.

_Are you free?_

The reply he gets is almost instant. When his phone buzzes on the desk, Newt physically jumps. He ignores Minho’s laughing behind him, and reads it.

_depends what you want, greenie_

Newt physically rolls his eyes at the nickname.

_I don’t understand Janson’s report and Minho is being incredibly unhelpful. Can you help?_

_come to my place._

His phone buzzes again before he can reply.

     _thomas is here too ;)_

Newt tries to ignore how the last text brings on a weird, warm swell in his stomach. He also doesn’t want to think too hard on how Teresa thought to tell him that.

"Okay," Newt starts to get up. His skin is suddenly tingling and he doesn’t lie it. "I’m going over Teresa’s."

"Finally!" Minho groans, dropping his head back onto his pillows and fist pumps the air in victory. "You’re so annoying when you’re stressing about your stupid essays."

" _Reports,"_ Newt corrects again.

He quickly gathers his papers and folds his laptop flat, tucking it all into his messenger bag. He flicks Minho on the forehead on his way out, laughing when the other teen flails and shrieks in surprise. He slams the door shut and starts walking.

He gets to Teresa’s surprisingly quickly, crossing the campus faster than he’s ever done before. Teresa’s apartment building is on the other side of the campus, so Newt hadn’t expected to get there so fast.

Was he too fast? Does he seem desperate? Too keen?

The questions swarm Newt’s mind like a flood, waves rolling too fast for him to keep up.

Does he like Thomas? That question rolls around and around, bouncing off the inside of his head like an unsettled tennis ball. His stomach twists and cramps. He’s only met Thomas a handful of times since he word-barfed about his dead parents. They’ve had less than a handful of conversations, and if even Teresa is catching onto this drift that even Newt hasn’t realised. . .

Newt can’t love Thomas. He can’t even  _like_  Thomas like that. Newt has to play it safe. Newt has to—

He comes out of his thoughts when he realises he’s been standing outside Teresa’s apartment building, staring at the front door for God knows how long. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

It’s a text from Teresa.

    _if you keep staring at the building, someone might take you for a stalker and call 911. get your ass up here, greenie. room 22_

Newt would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t so worried about the violent red blush of embarrassment crawling up his cheeks and neck, burning the tips of his ears.

Damn it, Teresa.

Newt doesn’t wait another minute. He tucks his phone into his pocket and marches up to the door. He waits for the elevator, hoping it will take it’ time and ignores the claustrophobia crawling across his skin like dancing ants. He can’t take he stairs, because he knows if he does, he’ll arrive at Teresa’s door damp with sweat and face flushed red.

The lift takes it’s time, but eventually he’s on the second floor. He stands outside Teresa’s door, debating whether he should knock or just wait, when the door flies open and reveals Teresa on the other side of the threshold.

"You sure do take your time, Greenie," Teresa says in greeting, hand on her hip and a lop-sided smirk on her face.

Newt draws in a surprised breath, "Uh, yeah. I—"

"Just get in here," Teresa interrupts, motioning inside, "you’re letting all the heat out."

"You have the heating on? It’s only October," Newt asks, but he steps inside the dorm room none-the-less.

"I don’t care if it’s only October. It’s cold outside," Teresa snaps, shutting the door behind them and walking into the kitchen.

Walking into the apartment is like walking into a hot air bag. It’s like a slap to the face. The apartment is almost  _too_  hot. The place is small, but it’s bigger than Newt’s whole dorm. There is an actual kitchen, small and boxy, and a tiny living room. Both of the rooms are connected, no walls diving them - it’s like one long stretch of a room. There’s two doors; one, Newt assumes, leads into a bedroom, and the other into a bathroom.

Newt is surprised. He hasn’t seen the college apartments yet, and he see’s why they cost more: it’s far nicer than the statutory dorms. Teresa’s place is small and cosy.

"Do you want a cookie?" Teresa calls from the kitchen. Newt looks from where he’s still standing by the front door, hand clasped tightly around the leather strap of his messenger bag. "My mom gave them to me when I saw her on the weekend. They’re chocolate chip," Teresa adds, shaking the box she has in her hand and wiggling her eyebrows.

Newt laughs lightly and walks to the couch, "Sure. Thanks."

They get started. Having Teresa explaining the whole thing again, in less complicated words, makes the whole thing much easier. Newt continues to munch on cookies, the plate of four disappearing embarrassingly quickly, but Teresa doesn’t seem bothered.

It takes all of Newt’s control not to keep searching around the apartment, because where is Thomas? Did he leave before Newt got here? Did Teresa lie? Was he still here?

The questions, like the first round, spin in Newt’s head in a dizzying effect. Newt takes sheepish glances, casually peaking towards the doors, in the kitchen, towards the front door. He doesn’t realise how obvious he is being until Teresa raises a confused - and amused? - eyebrow at him.

Newt can feel his cheeks glowing now.

"Where is, uh. . . where’s Thomas?" Newt asks, rubbing this neck. His skin feels like it’s burning.

Teresa smirks at him, nodding her head towards one of the closed doors behind her. "He’s in the shower."

Newt’s eyes almost bulge out of his head.

Thomas. . . is in the  _shower_.

His breath gets physically stuck in his throat. "I— uh—"

Teresa laughs at him, shaking her head. She looks back down at her work, clearly amused.

Newt frowns suddenly — why is Thomas showering at Teresa’s apartment? Doesn’t Thomas have his own shower?

Newt knows he doesn’t need to associate them being together in the way, but he can’t help but have horrific thoughts in his mind.

Teresa must be a mind reader, because she looks up at him again, her face wiped of amusement and instead deadpanned, "Thomas’ shower is really dodgy and only has cold water, so he showers here sometimes."

Newt nods. "Oh. Right. Well, I—"

He cuts himself off when Teresa gives him a shit-eating grin.

It’s suddenly hard for Newt to concentrate on the assignment now that he knows Thomas is next door, _naked_ and _wet_ , and—

Newt seriously needs to get his thoughts under control. Just because Thomas is there doesn’t mean anything. Newt doesn’t want anything, he made a promise to himself that he would stay out of the spotlight and away from relationships.

It’s another five minutes of Newt struggling to concentrate, before one of the doors behind Teresa opens. He risks looking up, stiffening, and instantly regrets it.

Thomas is walking out, dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants that cling in all the right places and a baggy red sweatshirt, littered with holes and rips in the sleeves. His feet are covered with big, pale wool socks, the cuffs of his pyjama bottoms tucked in. His hair is still dripping wet and clinging to his forehead like washed up curls of black seaweed. His cheeks are flushed, a tint of pleasant red glowing from his pale skin.

Thomas stops short when he notices Newt on the couch, and that the blonde is staring.

"Oh, hey," Thomas says, flashing a toothy smile. "I didn’t realise you were coming over."

Newt closes his mouth with an audible click, realising then that it is open and he most likely drooling because holy mother of God, he is _so_ gone.

"I— uh, y-yeah—" he stammers, and he feels his cheeks burn ruby red. This is going so badly.

"Newt was struggling with Janson’s report, so he came over to get help," Teresa says, and for once, Newt has never been more thankful for her presence. "You cooking spaghetti bolognese tonight?"

Thomas’ eyes linger on Newt for a few moments, before they drag over to Teresa and he nods, "Sure. You staying, Newt?"

"Yeah," Newt says before he can stop himself. His eyes widen with horror, "I mean if you— I can go— I don’t want to—"

"He’ll stay," Teresa says, and Newt can hear the humour in her tone. She is probably finding this very amusing. "Thanks, Tom."

Thomas nods again before he’s padding into the kitchen and  _fuck_ , why do the two rooms have to be connected? Newt has no escape now. No chance to let out a ragged breath or scold himself for being a hopeless romantic with a pathetic teenage crush.

They continue with the report. Teresa’s random comments go unheard in Newt’s ears as all of the other teens focus is being dedicated to keeping his attention  _away_  from the being flying around the kitchen. Soon, the smell of tomato sauce floods the apartment, filling the room with a sweet, salivating smell that has Newt almost sliding off the couch.

It’s not long before Thomas is announcing dinner being ready, and Newt may or may not be far too desperate to leap off the couch and abandon his papers. He’s practically scrambling for life, stumbling off the couch and into the kitchen before Teresa has even placed her laptop down.

Thomas laughs softly at him, the gentle melody of blessed giggles making Newt’s heart to things.

They settle on the couch, Thomas in the armchair, and after taking one bite of the spaghetti bolognese, Newt feels like weeping. Newt has never tasted something so delicious, and he’s almost sure that isn’t biased just because it’s Thomas. Even his mother’s homemade famous roast is like a ready meal compared to Thomas’ cooked bowl of heaven.

Newt seems to translate all of this into the sounds he makes as he eats, to which, Thomas and Teresa laugh at him about until his cheeks are so red they match the pasta sauce.

"This is incredibly, Tommy," Newt says, forcing calm into his tone. Inside, he feels like a child bounding around on Christmas morning. His whole system feels like a live wire.

Thomas waves a hand, "It’s nothing."

"Thomas did all the cooking in the house," Teresa chimes in, shovelling spoonfuls of spaghetti and sauce into her mouth like the next meal is a million days away. "He has this huge recipe book filled with all these different and weird foods. He spent hours, and I mean hours, trying to make everything from it."

Thomas shoots her a glare. "Yes, Teresa, he gets it. At least I  _can_  cook, unlike some people who almost burn kitchens down making shortbread."

"That was one time!" Teresa exclaims, but she’s smiling, "I’m a brilliant cook."

Thomas scoffs, grinning, "You could burn water."

"Oh, fuck off," Teresa says, launching a piece of pasta across the room and hitting Thomas square in the middle of his forehead. She laughs loudly, wheezing. When she calms down, she asks, "Do you cook Newt?"

"Uh, no," Newt answers. "My mother did all the cooking."

"Mom’s are the best cooks," Teresa agrees, nodding.

"God forbid when you become a mother," Thomas mutters into the rim of his glass as he takes a drink.

Newt chokes on the laugh lodged in his throat when he hears, and Thomas shoot him an amused smile.

"What?" Teresa asks, looking between the two.

"Nothing," Thomas sweetly replies, feigning innocence.

Teresa doesn’t buy it, and tosses another piece of pasta.

 

It’s another few hours before Newt finally packs to leave. When dinner was over, they moved stayed in the living room to carry on with work. Thomas had joined them, much to Newt’s embarrassment as he couldn’t -  _physically_ couldn’t - keep his head down and focus. The hours pass quickly, though, and before Newt knows it, Teresa is kicking them both out with a shout about her needing her 'beauty sleep'.

They walk out fo the building together, the cold air biting from the dropped temperature. The college is lit by streetlights, glowing softly.

Beside him, now dressed in a pair of trainers and somehow looking both adorable and hot at the same time, Newt see’s Thomas pull out a white box. He removes a cigarette and puts it between his lips. Newt feels his heart beginning to race, because that is honestly the most attractive thing he’s seen in years.

And then, Thomas is looking at him, the box extended in his pale hand.

"Want one?"

Oh— uh, yeah," Newt stammers, taking a white stick with tingling hands.

He looks down at the cigarette in his hand, rolling in the dip of his palm. The small object that looks so innocent to anyone who has no idea of it’s consequences. Newt hasn’t smoked since he was with George, and even then, it was more of an act of peer pressure until he found actual pleasure in it. George was like that, though; forcing and dominant, making Newt do something until he grew to love it anyway.

"You okay?" Thomas asks, snapping Newt out of his spiralling thoughts.

Newt nods, noticing Thomas looking at him. The boy looks more soft and kind in the dim, yellow glow of the streetlights. For once, Newt realises he means it. He is okay. George is gone, Newt is here, and no one is going to hurt him.

"Here," Thomas says, stepping forward. He has a sliver lighter in his hand, and he flips the light and drags his thumb over the runner. A flame sparks, flickering. Newt puts the cigarette between his lips, and Thomas leans in close, curling his hands around the tip and lighting the end. Newt hears it crackle, and then Thomas’ eyes are flicking up, looking from the end of the cigarette and directly into Newt’s eyes. Their faces are inches apart, so close Newt can see every shade of golden brown in the whiskey orbs.

Newt feels like he can’t breath. Thomas is so close, and then he’s moving away. Newt watches him take a step back, hands closing around his own cigarette end.

Thomas lights his cigarette, taking a drag an exhaling.

They walk through the campus, and Newt finds himself wondering, as he looks at the other teen, what really happened to Thomas when he was younger. He seems so unaffected now, so at ease and content with everything in his life, yet his past seems to speak anything other. His mother is gone, his father abandoned him, so how could he be so okay with everything around him?

It makes Newt feel guilty, selfish and arrogant. He’s been whining for so long about his own problems, about George and the shit that came after. Thomas has had his whole life ripped away from him at God-knows what age, and yet here he is, dealing with his bucket loads of shit better than Newt is.

"What happened to your mum?" Newt asks, and instantly, he feels like he could vomit. Who asks stuff like that?

Thomas looks across at him, seeming surprised but not angry, or hurt, or dejected. He takes a drag of his cigarette.

"She died of stomach cancer when I was twelve. My dad had left by then, so it was just us," Thomas explains. "Teresa’s mother and my mother were best friends since childhood, so me and T were practically like siblings even before Monica adopted me."

"Do you have no other family members?" Newt asks before he can stop himself. Thomas seems genially unbothered by the questions, so Newt simply can’t stop himself.

"My mother was an only child, her parents died young and never got to know her own family. I never knew my dads side," Thomas says, shrugging like it’s not big deal.

New nods, though he doesn’t feel like he understands. He could never understand how Thomas feels, what that felt like.

Newt hopes he never will.

 

_— tbc._


	2. learn to let go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains graphic description of a panic attack. warnings apply. safe safe <3
> 
> **chapter title:** learn to let go by IDER

******PART 2**

If anyone asks, Newt is simply resting. He is just walking back from class to his dorm room, and on his way, he stopped for a break.

What was actually happening, is that Newt didn’t have a class today. He also never has needed to walk past this part of campus, and it is a actual a large detour from his normal route. But, that doesn’t matter. He’s just doing some extra exercise today, and by some random chance, Newt might have what class Thomas has today and where. So, he may or may not be waiting outside Thomas’ class to see if the teen wants to hang out.

It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since he last saw Thomas walking back from Teresa’s, but he has this unexplainable urge to see him again.

It’s not too long after he gets there (Newt times 22 minutes exactly), before the lecture hall door is opening and students are pouring out. Newt stands instantly from where he was sitting on the bench, resting. He grabs his satchel, slinging it over his shoulder and scans the crowd for the fluffy brown hair to come into view.

"Thomas!" He shouts when he spots him, and then he suddenly remembers he’s meant to be  _resting_. His train of thought is thrown off when Thomas turns around, following the call of his name, searching the people around him until he finds Newt. He smiles, that same smile that has stolen Newt’s breath every time he’s seen it. Newt feels like he’s been physically punched.

"Hey, Newt," Thomas greets, still smiling, when Newt catches up to him.

He’s wearing a pair of washed out skinny jeans, baggy and torn in the knees from age, and a burgundy red shirt over a white tee, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and shoving the beginnings of the maze of tattoos climbing up his arms. Newt has to control himself  _not_  to stare at the black ink drawn across the expanse of his pale skin, and instead looks at Thomas’ face.

Turns out, that isn’t much easier.

"Uh, hi," Newt replies.

"What are you doing here?" Thomas asks.

Of course he’d ask that.

"I’ve— uh, got class," Newt replies. He feels oddly out of place, hands fidgety. He finds himself playing with the leather strap of his bag,

"Cool," Thomas nods, "I’ve got a shift at the pub, so. . ."

"Now?" Newt frowns. What pubs are open  _now?_  It’s eleven in the morning.

"Yeah. I’ve got to get it ready for tonight. Fill the pumps, clean the tables and stuff," Thomas shrugs.

"I’ll come," Newt rushes to say. He’s starting to wonder why he doesn’t think before he speaks.

Thomas’ face remains neutral, if not a bit amused by Newt’s eagerness. "You. . . _want_ to come to work?"

"I can help you," Newt offers anxiously. His hands tremble at his sides. "Y’know, two pairs of hands are better than one."

"I thought you had class?"

_Well, shit._

Newt fumbles, tongue tangled and words tripping. "Oh— I, uh. No, I—I meant I j-just finished class. I just _finished_. . . so I’m free. . . now."

Thomas stares at him for a moment, hazel eyes studying him, calculating him as if looking for a flaw in his lie. Newt feels almost squeamish under the intense, yet soft, gaze.

"Okay," Thomas says, nodding and smiling. "Sure, you can come. I’m sure Brenda won’t mind the extra help."

Newt steels himself, "Brenda will be there?"

"No, but she runs the place with her Uncle Jorge. She sometimes gets a bit moody about non-employees coming in during closed hours," Thomas shrugs, flashing him a devious smile. "It’ll be fine, though. She’ll never know."

Newt feels a surge of excitement in the thought of Thomas sneaking him around. He smiles back, nodding.

"Okay," he agrees, "As long as you don’t get in trouble."

Thomas waves a hand in dismissal and turns, "Don’t sweat it. Brenda’s cool. She’ll be fine."

They begin to walk, and Newt has to skip to keep with Thomas’ long, quick strides. It’s then that he realises Thomas has never asked about his limp. He wasn’t there when everyone else asked, so unless someone else has told him, Thomas still doesn’t know. It makes him feel something indescribable at the thought of Thomas not prying into his business, and then he feels the stab of guilt because he’s pried into Thomas’ business more than once.

"We gotta go to your dorm first," Thomas says, and Newt is about to ask why, when the brunette beats him and explains, "I don’t have a car, so Minho lets me use his."

"Woah," Newt breaths, "Minho lets you drive his car? He wouldn’t even let me use his body wash the other day! I thought he had a sharing problem."

Thomas laughs, "You’re right about one thing; Minho _does_ have a sharing problem. But I’ve known him forever, and he knows I can’t afford a car. I pay him back anyway, put my own petrol in and that stuff."

Newt nods, understanding that Thomas probably can’t afford a car at this age - not many people can.

"How many jobs do you work?" Newt asks.

"Two," Thomas replies easily. "Part time at the bar and I’m an apprentice at the tattoo parlour in town."

Newt’s eyebrows rise, "That’s impressive."

He’s once again surprised; Thomas works two jobs, still doesn’t have enough to own a car, and is this walking ray of sunshine and happiness. Newt can’t get his head around it. Thomas has to work at a pub and a tattoo parlour, while Newt has to do neither. Anything Newt wants or needs, his mother will get it for him. He wonders then, what’s it like not to have any parents, to have no one to rely on or help.

Minho’s car isn’t anything flash or special, just a simple grey Volvo T5. When Newt first saw the car, parked crookedly against the curb, he hadn’t thought it would even start, let alone go above 20 miles per hour. He was proved wrong, of course, when Minho roared the car to life, skidded off the curb with a metallic scrape, and sped down the room.

The car looks shit, but it goes damn fast.

Thomas drives at a much more safe speed - although it’s still too fast for Newt’s liking. He figures Thomas and Minho probably learnt together, so they most likely pick up on each others traits and habits. Thomas, at least, doesn’t ram into every curb, skid every corner and yell at any driver than comes within two meters of the car.

The journey to the pub takes the same time as it did with Minho driving, and Thomas only grins when Newt mentions that. They clamber out, and when they get to the doors, Thomas pulls out a collection of silver keys on a single ring. He fumbles for a moment, his long, slender fingers flicking through each one. Newt feels his eyes zero in on the thin, pale, veiny hands that look both fragile and strong, soft and hand, kind and cruel. He’s never felt so hypnotised by someone’s _hands_ , but Newt finds himself blocking out the rest of the world around him as he stares at the way the tendons move and shift under the white skin.

The opening of the door breaks the seal Newt had fallen in, and his head snaps up in time to see Thomas take a step inside.

The pub is strangely lifeless without the room filled with people. It makes sense, in a way, but it’s almost daunting to see it so empty. The lights are off, and Newt wonders how Thomas manages to get to the other side of the room without tripping over a car or a table to turn the lights on.

"The delivery guy should be here at twelve-thirty, so we have forty-five minutes to get the chairs down and the pumps clean," Thomas says, dropping his collection of keys on the bar counter with a metallic ' _clank_ '.

"Right," Newt nods, looking around at the stacked chairs and tables. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just put all the chairs down under the tables. If you don’t mind, could you grab a cloth from behind the bar and wipe down the tables? I’m gonna go out back, open up so we’re ready for the deliveries," Thomas replies, flashing Newt a warm smile before turning and making his way to the dark wooden door behind the bar that reads  ** _STAFF ONLY_**. He turns when he gets to the door, and Newt didn’t even realise he’d been watching him go, until Thomas turns to meet his eyes. "Thank you," he says, voice soft and genuine.

Newt feels his cheeks glow ruby red and thanks the dim light for disguising it. He smiles back, unable to hide the happiness blooming in is chest. "You’re welcome, Tommy."

The rest of the afternoon is spent cleaning tables and wiping down surfaces until the delivery guy, Ben, turns up with crates upon crates of bottles and kegs. Newt can’t imagine what it must be like to have to restock a pub alone, because doing it with Thomas tires him out to the point that his shoulders are almost popping out his sockets when he lifts a particularly heavy crate of _Jack_ _Daniels_. Thomas laughs, the adorable asshole, and takes the crate from him, carrying it into the back of the pub with little struggle. Newt may, or may not, take that opportunity to stare at the rippling muscles in Thomas’ upper arms, his strong wrists.

They clean and refill the pumps, wipe down the bar top and stock the shelves behind the bar with bottles and snacks. It’s almost five o’clock in the afternoon when they finish, and Newt is utterly exhausted.

He drops down on one of the bar stools with an exaggerated groan.

Thomas laughs from where he’s standing on the other side of the bar, drying crystal glasses with a cloth. "Tired?" He asks.

Newt rests his head in the crook of his arm. He nods, groaning again. God, he is _never_ going to volunteer to do this again.

"Don’t be so dramatic," Thomas chuckles, putting down the dry glass and leaning against the counter, his fingers inches away from Newt’s bare arm. "Well, if we’re done here, why don’t we go and get some pizza?"

"You know a place?" Newt mumbles into his arm.

"Best in the town," Thomas grins.

He raises his head and smiles, "That’d be amazing."

Thomas nods, grin widening. "Awesome! Let me go lock up out back and we can go."

Newt watches him go, heart beating widely in his chest.

There’s something special about Thomas that shines through the hideous black cloud Newt has surrounded himself in. Thomas is like the light in the dark, a drop of colour in a grey spectrum. He is the chaos and the calm at the same time. He makes Newt want to cry and laugh at the same time, because he’s so mysteriously kind and gorgeous and Newt finally knows he is falling hard.

So damn hard.

*****

It takes Newt two months after starting at Glades College to get himself a job. It’s almost like a end-of-year resolution for him, to prove he can be like other students; be independent and not rely on their mommies. Everyone he knows has a job, and he can imagine most of the other students at his college do too. It’s almost like a tradition, he’s beginning to learn, to have a job in your first year.

It’s strange; Newt feels like he’s fitting in, finally normal and 'common' like the rest of the people around him, yet he still feels like his skin is crawling every moment of the day and he has to make it everyday’s aim not to run and quit.

Working at the college coffee hut isn’t so bad, and he doesn’t mind the smell of coffee - thankfully! - the only problem is that he is embarrassingly uneducated in the ways of work. A week ago, he walked into the Coffee Hut, and before he even finished asking for a job, the guy, Alby, cut him off and told him to come back the next day at 6 o’clock in the morning.

Newt had been there the next morning, 6 o’clock on the dot, and walked in as the bell chimed above his head. He’d barely finished saying 'Good morning' before Alby was tossing an apron at his head and telling him to follow him. Alby, so far, has proved himself to be a demanding and sharp kind of guy, though he seems kind enough. He’s still far too blunt for Newt’s comfort-zone, and makes a fairly abrupt first impression on Newt during the first five minutes in his company.

Alby had only given him a quick run through of the machines, rushed demonstrations of how they work before he was moving on. He showed him the stock room and how to work the till. He opened the cafe five minutes later, telling him if he needed anything then just shout into the back room. And then, Alby was gone.

Newt’s first day, honestly, could not have gone worse. The machine’s were a nightmare that he couldn’t get to work. He forgot what buttons to press, waited too long for the sandwiches and sausage rolls to heat up, burning them. He split coffee, got orders wrong, and even dropped the money when he was handed it. He asked for the wrong amount of money for orders, gave the wrong change, and by the end of the day, he was close to crying. He was surprised when Alby didn’t fire him when he came out of the stockroom to close up. Alby did, however, give Newt an unimpressed took when he saw the unmissable messy state of his apron and the coffee machines.

And all he said before he ushered Newt out the door was, "Be here at six again tomorrow."

What surprises Newt more, is that even after his disastrous first day, he’s still clinging to the job five days later. Now, Newt has figured out the coffee shop patterns; it’s always bust in the morning from opening to nine o’clock when students are at their peak coffee needs before class, it quietens down till about 11:30 before the lunch rush comes through and it’s another two hours of chaos and cues. It’s manageable from about three till five before the cafe closes and the day is over. Newt has gotten better on the machines, at least now he’s more of an amateur and can make a cup of coffee without spilling it down himself.

Newt has been in the coffee hut since lunch time, having come in after his morning lecture ended. Alby had been behind the counter when he got there, and barely looked twice at Newt before he was disappearing into the backroom and leaving Newt to take his place. Newt hadn’t taken the arrangement badly this time - he’s getting used to Alby’s antics and knows that no matter how busy the cafe becomes, Newt is not going to get any assistance or help because while Alby is out back, he is 'off duty'.

Newt is collecting a student’s change, costing the coins quickly despite the lack of cue behind the customer, when the bell above the door chimes. The sound is unnoticeable to Newt now, the ring of the bell floating above his subconscious without being fully registered. On his first day, he’d been jumping with surprise every time someone walked in, but now, it’s like the sound of breathing. It isn’t until Newt looks up, handing the customer their change, the words 'Thank you' on the tip of his tongue, when he notices who it was that walked in.

Newt instantly groans, eyes wide as he stares at the pair coming up to the counter, "Oh shuck."

Minho grins, Frypan at his side, leaning against the counter on his elbows. "Hey, shank," he says.

Newt doesn’t know how he’s managed almost a week without someone in his group coming in, but he certainly wasn’t hoping his first would be Minho.

"What do you want?" Newt sighs, exasperated, and drops his head to his chest. This is going to end badly.

"Coffee, obviously," Frypan replies.

"So," Minho smirks, "Do we mates-rates?"

Newt frowns, eyebrows pinching. "Mates-rates?"

"Yeah. Mates-rates," Minho echoes, tone bland, waving a hand around. "Y’know. Discounts, free coffee. Shuck like that."

"Uh, no," Newt draws, shaking his head. "You’re not getting a free coffee."

"Discount then."

"No."

"Fifty percent."

"No, Minho."

"Twenty-five?"

"No."

"Ten?"

_"NO!"_ Newt bursts, swallowing thickly when his shout booms through the almost empty coffee shop. He composes himself, sighing, "I can’t give you a shucking discount."

He’s even caught onto Minho’s language. He’s almost fully corrupted.

Minho rolls his eyes. " _Fine_. Two large coffees, extra sugar, coffee bitch."

"Fine," Newt replies, and before he turns around to the machines, he quickly adds, "And don’t call me that."

While the coffees are being made, Newt jabs the numbers into the cash register.

"Is that all?" He asks.

"Well, if you want to throw in a free sandwich—"

"Minho," Newt says in warning, glaring.

Minho huffs. "Alright, alright. We’ll have a slice of lemon cake."

Newt nods, pressing the till buttons. "I didn’t think you liked lemon cake."

"I don’t," Minho replies. "It’s for Thomas, or at least, when the shank decides to finally turn up."

Newt stiffens at the name, his muscles coiling up like a spring in a second. He is sure Frypan see’s, judging by the way the teen’s calculating eyes are on Newt when it happens. Newt is just thankful when the boy doesn’t say anything, but his smirk stays.

Newt swallows thickly, "T-Thomas is coming? Here?"

Minho nods, but he isn’t looking at Newt anymore, and instead eyeing the inside of the glass Tip Jar by the till that’s half-filled with crumpled dollar bills.

"What are you. . ." Newt coughs, his throat dry and itchy, clearing the croak in his voice, "What are you guys doing today?"

"Forest run," Frypan answers.

Newt nods, swallowing thickly. "I’m off in five. Can I come with?"

Minho looks up them, face blank. For a few moments, he’s silent, and then he starts chuckling, "You want to go running? You? With the funny limp?"

Newt glares at him. "Yes, Minho. Running with a limp is possible."

"You sure you can run without tripping like a girl?" Minho teases, barely seeming to be able to hold back his laugh.

Rolling his eyes, Newt collects the coffees. He puts them on the counter, then opens the display of cakes and foods. He picks up the lemon cake, cutting a generous slice - because it’s for Thomas.

"You want it wrapped up?" He asks.

Minho is about to answer, looking like he is on the verge of going ' _uhhh_ ', when the door opens with another chime. Newt’s eyes instantly flick to peer over Minho’s shoulder in time to watch Thomas walk in.

Newt feels his mouth water considerably. Thomas is wearing a light grey long sleeve, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and a pair of running shorts. His thin legs are shadowed with just the right amount of muscle, making him look lean.

He smiles when he meets Newt’s eyes.

"Hey," he says, coming to stand next to Minho. "I didn’t know you worked here."

Newt feels himself smile back, but his mind instantly goes blank. He fumbles over his thoughts for a response, but all he can think about is how good Thomas looks without even trying.

"He’s been working here all week, but hasn’t told anyone because he doesn’t like the name 'Coffee Bitch'," Minho says, picking up his cardboard flask of coffee from the counter.

"I thought I told you not to call me that," Newt snaps, and then narrows his eyes at the teen, "You haven’t paid for that."

Minho rolls his eyes and slams a twenty on the counter. "Don’t get your knickers in a twist, shank," he says, "Alby won’t fire your scrawny ass for letting me sip my coffee."

"Alby would. He hates me," Newt replies, sorting Minho’s change before closing the register tray with his hip, with more force than needed, and passes Minho his money.

"Alby hates everyone," Frypan says, "You should be grateful he even hired you."

"What’s wrong with me?" Newt asks, and when they all chuckle and avert their eyes, he bristles in frustration, "What?!"

"Don’t worry, Greenie," Frypan responds, and the way he stifles his laugh behind his hand only makes Newt more annoyed.

The Brit looks at the clock with a heavy huff and reads:  **16:32**.

He grins and look directly at Minho, "I’ll go get changed."

"You can do what you want, but you’re not coming," Minho replies, heading for the door.

"Shut up, Minho," Newt replies without a beat.

"You’re coming running with us?" Thomas asks, sounding genially interested. It reminds Newt why he likes Thomas best.

"Yes," Newt smiles. He doesn’t wait to see Thomas’ expression, turning quickly and walking into the backroom. He whips off his apron, grabs his bag from one of the crates and stuffs the dirty garment inside. He pulls out his casual clothes, quickly realising he only has the skinny jeans he’s wearing and a knitted jumper.

_Well, brilliant._

He sighs, stuffing the jumper back into his backpack and sticking with his jeans and grey work polo shirt. He throws his messenger over his shoulder and walks out.

When he walks back out into the cafe, he is half-expecting them all to be gone. But, when he finds Thomas still standing by the counter, picking up the last bits of lemon cake off the white-ceramic plate it’s served on, he feels something in his chest blossom.

Thomas looks up when Newt rounds the counter, and breaks out into a smile.

"Thanks for waiting," Newt says.

"No problem," Thomas replies, grinning. "Minho was getting impatient so he and Frypan are waiting by the car."

"I thought we were going for a run?"

"We are, but the forest we run in is a twenty minute drive away," Thomas explains, pushing off the counter to begin to leave. He looks Newt up and down, studying his jeans and t-shirt. "You’re running in that?"

Newt feels his face heat. "Uh, yeah? I don’t have anything else on me," he admits sheepishly.

Thomas smiles at him again, turning towards the door. "Don’t worry, it’ll do. There’s worse things you could run in, right?"

Newt lets out a breathless chuckle, "Yeah. Far worse."

 

Thomas is right: it takes them twenty minutes to get to the forest, and to Newt’s pleasure, and possibly torture, he sits in the back with Thomas.

The twenty minutes, however, flies by and before Newt knows it, Minho is skidding off the road and turning into a large dirt carpark.

They all clamber out. The moment Newt’s shoes hit the floor, a cloud of dusty dirt stirs up from the ground and cakes his pumps. He follows the trio into the closest clearing in the trees, following down a dirt track path covered in fallen leafs and broken twigs.

They aren’t even a minute into the woods when Minho and Thomas start running. Newt is so startled when they begin sprinting off that he almost trips.

"Scaredy cat," Frypan snorts, and Newt shoots him a cold glare.

"Come on," Newt says, and together, the pair of them begin running - it’s more like a jog, at a very slow pace.

Newt has never done anything like this. With his friends at home being Harriet, Aris and his sister, all of which had no interest at all in exercise, going for a run wasn’t something Newt ever did. Newt also has no interest in exercise, and the only running he has ever done is running for a bus.

After only about three minutes of steady jogging, Newt is out of breath. He’s panting, feeling beads of sweat break out on the back of his neck, a stitch forming painfully in his side. Frypan is the same beside him, huffing and gasping for air, but Newt isn’t going to stop. He’s had enough humiliation so far, and he wants this. He wants to be with Thomas, so he needs to catch up with him.

They run for ten minutes before Thomas and Minho come into sight. The embarrassing thing is, the pair are running towards them, evidently coming back to find their slow-asses. Newt swallows down the feelings of embarrassment and continues to run, even when Frypan disappears from his side and falls back into a defeated walk.

Newt is so blinded by his triumph that he misses sight of the tree root probing out from the dirty ground. One second he is running, eyes on Thomas as his mind supplying him with the movie-like moment where Thomas and him will run into each others arms, and the next second he is falling, landing face first in the dry dirt of the forest floor.

Humiliation doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling Newt feels in that moment. His fall must have been hilarious, because seconds later, he hears the most loudest howls of laughter. He doesn’t want to look up, to see their faces, but the dirt is irritating his face. Luckily, he hasn’t broken anything - or at least thing he can tell, as he hasn’t actually  _moved_  yet - because a trip to hospital would be the cherry on top of this whole situation.

He finally braves it and raises his head. He’s sprawled out on his front, legs splayed behind him like a fallen Bambi on ice. The first thing he see’s is Thomas running towards him, his smile wiped from his face and expression pasty white.

"Oh, _fuck_ , Newt," he curses when he’s closer. Thomas doesn’t hesitate to bend down, helping him move back onto his knees. Newt would be more ecstatic about Thomas’ face being inches from his, but he’s consumed in embarrassment and half hopes for the floor just to swallow him up there and then.

"Are you okay?" Thomas asks, voice high and panicked. His eyes are racking over Newt, as if looking for injury. He’s crouching in the dirt now, completely on Newt’s level. If he looks up, their eyes would be inches apart.

Newt has come to the conclusion Thomas looks gorgeous when he’s worries, a very important and relevant conclusion.

"I’m fine," Newt sighs. "Just bruised my pride."

Thomas chuckles, letting out a heavy breath. "Nothing wrong with a bit of bruise pride."

After his soft words, it’s like Newt is snapped out of the bubble he’d put himself in. Almost losing himself from looking into Thomas’ whiskey eyes, captivated in the way the sun above them makes his lusciously long eyelashes cast shadows on his unfairly high cheekbones. Newt comes back to the present, to the sound of Minho dying.

Dying of  _laughter_.

Looking over Thomas’ shoulder, he see’s Frypan and Minho standing together - well, Frypan is standing, Minho is on the floor, clapping his hands like a fucking seal, snorting unattractively. Newt is pretty sure he’s crying too.

"Ignore them," Thomas says.

Newt sighs again, shaking his head. "That was so embarrassing," he admits.

Thomas smiles kindly, "It was pretty funny."

Newt glares, eyes flaring no real heat. "Shut up."

His venom-less snap only makes Thomas throw his head back and laugh. Suddenly, Newt doesn’t regret falling. Thomas looks blissfully happy, even if he’s laughing at Newt’s gracelessness.

"Come on. Let’s get your up, make sure nothings broken," Thomas says, already rising to his feet. He helps Newt, holding his hands to heave him to his feet. Newt would have, if it was anyone else, rejected the offer and got to his feet himself in futile attempt to regain his lost pride. But, this is Thomas, and his hands look too soft and warm to decline.

Minho is still on the floor, wheezing. At least Frypan has calmed down somewhat, though he’s still chucking. Minho, however, is beetroot red in the face from laughing too hard.

"Shut up, Minho," Newt grumbles, ducting off his pants. Newt notes how Thomas doesn’t move from his side, even when he’s up, standing teasingly close. 

It takes another minute for Minho to calm down enough to breath again and get to his feet.

"That made my shucking day," Minho says, wiping his eyes from the tears. He doesn’t even bother to try and hide his amusement. The smug asshole.

"Shuck off, jackass," Newt continues to glare.

Minho’s face brightens. "You’re really catching onto the Glader's slang!" He cheers, and Frypan chuckles beside him. "Nice one, Greenie!"

Newt rolls his eyes, about to tell him to shut up, but then he hears Thomas chuckling under his breath. The words disappear from his tongue. The sound is so soft, gentle and beautiful. Newt doesn’t want it to stop - even if it means Minho keeps talking.

"Well, I think this calls for some celebratory pizza," Minho announces.

"What are we celebrating?" Newt asks. His pride is still stung.

"You proving me right," Minho replies, "You _did_ trip like a girl."

Newt smacks Minho round the back of the head, making Thomas laugh again. Newt decides he prefers it when he makes Thomas laugh.

 

They go for pizza anyway, much to Newt’s turn off that they are only eating because of his ultimate fail in running.

They go to the pizzeria where Newt first met everyone, sitting in a snug red leather booth. He doesn’t want to thin about how, for the second time that day, he is forced and pressed flush next to Thomas. Well, 'forced' is probably a false way to describe it, as Newt is in no way complaining about sitting next to Thomas. They are so close that Newt can smell the faint scent of his deodorant.

Minho and Frypan sit opposite them, currently having a heated debate about the best pizza topping: Minho says pepperoni, and Frypan is arguing pineapple.

"What’s yours?" Thomas asks, and Newt finds that he’s been staring at the other guys arguing so intently that he almost missed Thomas’ question.

"Uh, probably pineapple."

Thomas’ face screws up in a cringe that shouldn’t look as adorable as it does. He snaps his head towards Frypan, halting the teens discussion with Minho, and says, "Hey, Frypan, you’ve got another pineapple lover."

Frypan high fives Newt over the table while Minho looks personality insulted.

"You disgust me, Greenie," he says. "You’re with me, right, Thomas? Pepperoni all the way?"

"Shuck yeah!" Thomas grins, fist bumping Minho. Newt swallows the bitter tang of jealously that floods him. _Pizza toppings mean nothing_ , he scolds himself.

Still, when they order, Newt asks for pepperoni instead of pineapple. At least no one has the decency to call him out on it, and he blatantly ignores Minho’s sly looks he sends.

"So," Minho begins after a particularly long slurp of his milkshake. He still has pizza in his mouth when he speaks, "Who’s packed?"

Newt frowns. "Packed?"

"We’re going on a ski trip to Vermont. Minho’s been planning it for like a year," Thomas explains, leaning into Newt when he speaks.

"Yeah, which reminds me. Greenie," Minho looks to him sharply, "Zart can’t come because the stupid shank for himself fired again and now can’t afford it, so we need you to come and even out the numbers again."

"You’re inviting me skiing?" Newt asks, because he’s not sure he heard correctly from Minho’s rushed and garbled talking.

"Yes, dumbass," Minho rolls his eyes before scooping up his milkshake and slurping again. "So, how 'bout it?"

"Uh. . ." Newt looks down at his plate of pizza. He can feel eyes on him and wonders for a moment if this is all some cruel trick. No one has ever invited him on a friend holiday before. He isn’t even sure what happens on them. It’s skiing, he tells himself. You can handle skiing. "Sure," he says, finally. "Sounds like fun."

Minho grins, as does Frypan and when Newt spares a glance at Thomas, he’s smiling too. Newt feels warm again.

"I’ll talk to you later about costs," Minho says.

"I, uh. . ." Newt rubs the back of his neck, "I don’t know how much I can get from work. When is the trip?"

"Beginning of December. Straight when we all get back from Thanksgiving," Minho replies. "I know it’s late notice, but we only found out Zart was bailing this morning."

"I don’t know if I can get enough in time," Newt sighs, "I only started work earlier this week."

Minho shrugs, "Ask your mom. We both know you’re filthy rich."

Newt bites back the annoyance from Minho bringing up his mothers money, as he has done various times since Newt made the mistake of admitting to Minho how he affords stuff. Newt also doesn’t like talking about his mothers wealthiness in front of Thomas, especially now he knows about Thomas’ own financial situation and the various jobs he has to maintain just to feed himself.

"Fine," Newt grits out, but only because he wants to go on this trip with Tommy. "I’ll see what I can do."

 

Newt phones his mother later than night to talk about the ski trip. He’s in debt to ring his mother anyways, having not spoken to her verbally for a few weeks. His mother is ecstatic when she answers, blabbing how much she misses him, asking how he is and what’s going on. He tells his mother about his classes, about his friends, about getting a job - to which his mother is surprised about but pleased for him. It’s good to hear his mother’s voice.

Newt has always been close to his mother. Ever since his father left them all when he was 15, Newt has grown attached to the woman who was always there, always caring for him.

Newt brings up the ski trip after thirty minutes of talking and catching up before Newt brings up the ski trip. He blurts it out like word vomit.

"Oh, Newt, how exciting!" His mother exclaims. "I’m so happy for you! What an excellent opportunity."

Newt raises an eyebrow from where he’s leaning on his back on his bed, despite his mother being unable to see him. Last time his mother was presented with the idea of travelling, she’d thrown a fit and gave Sonya a forty minute lecture about the dangers of the world.

"Really?" He asks in disbelief.

"Yes, of course! It’s lovely to hear you’re fitting in," his mother says, and the tone of her voice is anything but patronising, and instead motherly and warm.

"I, uh—" Newt rubs the back of his neck nervously. He’s asked his mother for money before, but this time it feels harder."I’m gonna need to borrow some money, f-for the trip."

"Of course, love," his mother’s reply is instant, bubbly and a unfazed. "Can’t expect you to pay for all that on your own!"

_Thomas has to_ , he tells himself.  _Thomas_ does.

Newt pushes away the thoughts of Thomas.

"I’ll pay you back," he insists. "I promise. I just need a few weeks to work up my wages and then I can give you all the money back."

"Oh, don’t be silly," she says, and he can imagine her fond smile. "You don’t need to pay me back, love."

"Okay," Newt replies, but he’s going to pay her anyway. There’s no point arguing now, but he’s going to pay her back one way or another. It’s mostly to prove to himself, to prove to his friends that have to work for their money.

He can’t rely on his mother’s bank any longer.

*****

Thanksgiving comes around faster than Newt realises. Before he knows it, he’s on his way home with a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder and a return ticket from Manhattan to Boston. His mothers present arrived the day before: he bought her a collectors edition of a bunch of classic books he remembers her always reading and loving. That is another thing he got from his mother: his love for books and reading. He also grabs some flowers from the train station when he gets into Boston.

When he opens the front door to his mothers home, it’s like he’s slapped in the face with a hot airbag. The house, as usual, is a box of thick heat. It’s almost suffocating, but Newt has grown up its his mothers hatred for cold and is more than used to having the heating constantly on. With a small smile, he realises it reminds him of Teresa’s apartment.

"I’m home!" He calls as he enters. The familiar smell of home hits him hard, and he suddenly can’t imagine ever leaving again.

"Newt!" His mother shouts moments before she comes running out of the kitchen. Newt has barely got his bag off his shoulder before his mother is pulling him into a bone-crushing hug, almost crushing the flowers he’s holding in the process. He instantly melts into the warmth, having missed the security of home.

"I thought you were going to ring me when you got off the train?" His mother questions, pulling away and cupping his cheeks.

Newt smiles, "Sorry, ma. Must have slipped my mind."

His mother tusks him, shaking her head. She strokes his cheeks with her thumbs, her hands warm.

"Happy birthday, mum," he smiles, holding up the flowers.

His mother gasps, hands flapping for a moment before she takes them. "Oh, Newt, they’re gorgeous!" she says, her eyes watering, and she leans forward to kiss his forehead. "Come on, dinners almost ready," she says, picking up his bag off the floor. He follows her into the kitchen. "You’re room is still the same," she continues, "We’ve kept a few boxes in there while you’ve been away, but we cleared them out before you came."

"You didn’t have to keep my room, mum," he says, cheeks blushing.

His mother smiles at him, the same smile she always wears. "Of course I did, Newt. This is your home still."

Something about the words make Newt feel endlessly warm.

"Where’s Sonya?" He asks as he moves his bag into the living room so it’s out of the way. He heads back into the kitchen, his mothers present in his hand.

"She’s gone to the store to get some wine," his mother replies, standing over the stove. The flowers he bought are in a vase with water on the kitchen island.

"Here," he says, stepping up to her and handing her the wrapped box, "to go with the flowers."

His mother gasps again, unwrapping them. "Oh, Newt!" She gasps when she sees the present inside, "I love them! How perfect!"

Newt’s cheeks glow red and he ducks his head. "I’m sorry it’s not much," he says.

"Don’t be silly," his mother replies. "It’s the thought that counts. I really love them, Newt. They’re much nicer than my old battered ones. Thank you, love."

She kisses his forehead again, dumping the wrapping paper in the bin and placing the book collection on the side, out of the way of food.

The front door opens a few minutes later, and his mother calls, "Sonya?"

Newt’s sister appears in the kitchen moments later, dumping the bags on the kitchen island. She seems completely oblivious to Newt’s presence as she pants, cheeks flushed red, brushing her light blonde hair off her face.

"I only asked you to get wine," her mother says, looking at the bags on the counter. "What’s all this?"

Sonya takes a deep breath, "Well, I realised while I was there that we all like different wines, so I got us all a bottle each. And then, I realised that we haven’t got pudding apart from your homemade torte, which will last about five seconds when Newt gets home, so I bought some ice cream, banoffee pie, and chocolate eclairs too."

"Wow," Newt replies, looking at the mass off food and bottles.

Sonya turns to him, eyes growing wide. "Newt!" She shouts, and promptly throws herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck in a tight hug. "You’re home!"

His mother cooks lasagna for dinner, and as Sonya had prepared for, they all have a bottle of wine to drink from. Newt doesn’t need his own, if he’s honest. He barely drinks any of his own, simply sips through his first glass and doesn’t pour himself another. He’s a lightweight, he knows that, and the last thing he needs to do on his mothers birthday is get hammered.

He lays off the wine, but manages to eat enough dessert to make himself feel sick. Sonya was right: the torte his mother made lasts about five seconds before Newt scoffs his large portion down. Sometimes, he wonders if the best thing about coming home is his mothers cooking.

They settle in the living room later that evening. They talk about college, about Newt’s new job. They talk about Sonya, about how she’s in her last year of high school and how much she apparently hates it. They talk about his mothers plan for Christmas, that his grandmother is coming over from London to spend the festive season with them.

Newt tells them about his friends, about Thomas and Teresa, about Minho being his roommate. He tells them about the pizzeria and the bar, about his professors antics and lectures.

 

The rest of the week is spent the same. He spends the week in Boston. He meets up with Harriet and Aris, the two of them going out with Newt and Sonya for dinner. He’s missed them dearly, but while he’s there, he misses Minho, and Teresa, and Thomas.

He tries not to think about it too hard.

 

He heads back to the train station a few days after Thanksgiving, shooting a text to Minho to say he’ll be getting back to the dorm quite late in the evening. He wants to stay in Boston a little longer. He misses home, he misses the familiarity of the streets and the people - not that Newt knew many people. There’s a part of his chest that tightens when he thinks about leaving, going back to the college, back to where he’s guessing his every step and decision.

But, he can’t stay. He has classes, he has commitments, and most importantly, Thomas is at college.

Newt is standing on the platform, bag slung over his shoulder. The last train back to Manhattan leaves in fifteen minutes, and Newt is debating the idea of cueing for a coffee before it arrives. He looks down at his tickets; steadying himself for a five hour journey back to college, when something catches his eye. He recognises the figure instant, and it’s as if all the air inside his lungs is sucked out.

George.

Newt can’t breath. His skin is tingling, burning like it’s dosed in fire and ice at the same time. His heart is hammer jacking in his chest, punching like a animal fighting out of his rib cage. He feels all the blood drain from his face, his hands shaking at his sides so hard he almost drops his ticket. His legs tremble underneath him, and suddenly, he’s running.

Stumbling is more of an accurate way to describe the way Newt makes his way into the station restroom. He falls through the door, almost braining himself on the sink. He drops to the floor, legs unable to hold himself up anymore. His vision is darkening, lungs and brain deprived of oxygen. He’s scared. He’s scared and alone and _panicking_. He can’t imagine how pathetic he must look; sitting on the dirty station toilet floor, face red, covered in tears and snot, wheezing like a punctured balloon.

He can’t believe George is here. He’s so _close_ , he’s so near Newt. It’s thrown him into a blender, a full-blown panic attack that’s sucked all the air out of the room. He feels like his chest has caved in. His skin is crawling. This can’t be happening.

He’s managed to escape it for so long. Everything was okay. He hasn’t had a nightmare in weeks, he hasn’t even thought about that night. When people have asked if he’s okay, he’s been able to genially admit that is okay.

But he’s not now. He’s not okay.

He doesn’t even realise he’s rolled up his sleeves until he feels the sudden sting to the insides of his arms. He looks down, his wrists and arms covered in thin, red lines from his frantic nails that had been scratching manically at his already scarred skin. He lets out a frustrated sob at the sight of his mangled skin, but he isn’t sure if he’s crying because they are  _there_ , or the fact that they won’t reopen and give him the small stings he needs to bring him back to reality. It’s been too long, he realises. He’s let them scarred over, turning into white, jerky lines along the inside of his arms.

The panic still has him in it’s clutches, squeezing his lungs and chest like they’re stuck in a metal clamp. He can feel the vomit and bile climbing up his throat as he scrambles for his abandoned back and snatches his phone from the front pocket. His fingers are trembling so much, his eyes blurry with tears. He doesn’t even realise who he’s calling until he’s pressing the phone to his ear and hears their answer machine coming through.

_"Hey, it’s Thomas! Sorry I couldn’t take your call, but just leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!"_

Newt plays his answer machine five times before he feels himself beginning to calm down. The repeat of Thomas’ voice, calm and kind and familiar, makes the panic lessen, the tight loosening around his chest and finally, he can breath again.

He rests his head against the toilet stall door, gulping deep breaths. He can’t believe that just happened.

He hasn’t seen George since that night, over a year ago. The night that ruined everything, that threw Newt so off the tracks that he could barely find his way back. He spent months trapped in the dark clouds of his cruel thoughts, trying to run from what happened, what happened to  _him_.

The announcement for his train arriving is what finally gets him up. He wipes his trousers, brushing off the dust and dirt from the dingy restroom floor. He grabs his phone and bag, exiting the toilet hastily. The train is already standing at the platform, so Newt jumps on with his head down and takes the closest seat he can find. The train is quiet, his carriage practically empty, so Newt is able to find a window seat without any strangers sitting next to him.

He rests his head against the cool glass of the window and lets out a heavy, exhausted breath. He hates panic attacks, but the tiredness that grips his bones after is almost just as bad.

His phone vibrates in his hand, and Newt is half-tempted to ignore it. Curiosity wins, and he reluctantly glances down at the illuminated screen.

His heart jumps - it’s a text from Thomas.

He swipes his phone, unlocking it quickly.

_sorry i missed your call! everything okay?!_

Newt sighs. There’s so much he wants to say, but he doesn’t have the guts to say it. He can’t tell Thomas, he can’t scare him away yet.

_I’m fine. On the train home now._

He closes his eyes and turns off his phone, dumping it in his bag just as the train jolts into movement.

 

_— tbc._


	3. scars done healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains references to child abuse, rape, panic attacks, self harm, attempted suicide. warnings apply. stay safe and i hope you enjoy <3<3
> 
> thank you so much for all the love and support this story is getting :) this chapter was really hard to write, as i've never been good at dialogue and conversation writing and it was really hard to make these conversations and feeling realistic. if i've done a bad job, tell me in the comments and i'll try and fix it :)
> 
>  **chapter title:** everything has grown by colouring

**PART 3**

The date for the ski trip comes a week after Newt gets back from Thanksgiving break. After Minho had given him the costing and hotel details, Newt had spent half the night trying to work out how many shifts he’s going to need to pull at the Coffee Hut before he can pay off his debt to his mother.

The night before the ski trip, Newt barely gets any sleep. His mind is alive and buzzing, excited and nervous. He’s tingling with anxiety, good and bad. It doesn’t consume him, just remains a noticeable itch under his skin. He’s swarmed with thoughts of what it will be like, what might happen, and what might go wrong. Newt has always been a worrier, and while his sister has always teased him for it, he knows it’s better to be cautious than careless.

Minho, however, seems to strongly disagree with that statement the morning of the ski trip. In the end, he gets so frustrated with Newt’s frantic mothering and fluttering that he literally shuts him out of their dorm room. When Newt knocks to come back in, Minho tells him he has to stay out there until he’s finished his packing.

"I hate you," is the first thing Newt says when his idiotic dorm-mate opens their door half an hour later.

Minho rolls his eyes, "Shut up, Greenie. You love me. Now, grab your bags."

Newt complies, huffing loudly. He enters his dorm room and grabs his bags that are still sitting on his bed - exactly where he left them before he was rudely shoved out of his own room!

He glances at the watch on his wrist, gasping.

"Minho!" He yelps, "We have ten minutes until the train leaves!"

"Oh, stop worrying," Minho groans, waving a hand idly as he stands in the corridor, his own duffle and suitcase at his feet. "It’s your worrying that’s making us late. Now _hurry the shuck up_ and let me lock the door."

Newt grabs his bag in a scrambled haste, running and stumbling out the door. Minho takes his time locking up, rolling his eyes every time Newt presses him into hurrying.

They drive to the station in nine minutes, and because is Newt is an organised person (or paranoid, as Minho calls it), he already has their tickets booked and printed them out the night before, so they’re able to dash straight through the machines and onto the platform. The train has already pulled up as they sprint down the stairs, and Newt feels a sudden panic when he can’t find the rest of the group.

"Come on, Greenie," Minho says, rushing past him, "Teresa said they’re on the second carriage."

Newt doesn’t question how Minho knows that, and instead legs it as fast as his legs will carry him. The conductor is blowing a sharp whistle as he leaps on, bags juggling in his arms. The door beep and slide closed a moment after he boards. He lets out a heavy and rushed breath, relieved that they make it and didn’t miss the train because Minho is a slow—

Newt’s eyes catch sight of the familiar sight of those brown eyes, their colour the shade of strong tea under the train carriage lights.

"Newt! Minho!" Thomas grins, waving from where he’s sitting in the middle of the carriage. "You made it," he says when they get closer.

Newt smiles widely. He can’t help it. Thomas’ bright eyes are wide and excited, his grin contagious.

Everyone is there: Gally, Teresa, Brenda, Winston and Frypan. Their train carriage is considerably empty, only two other passengers in the whole cart. The group have managed to sit with two tables either side of the isle. In one, there are Winston, Frypan and Gally, and in the other is Brenda, Teresa and Thomas.

"I was banking on you two being late," Gally says when Minho drops down next to him.

Newt is silently thankful when Minho chooses that seat because that means he gets to sit’s next to Thomas. He barely manages to hide his pleased smile when he sits down next to Thomas, flashing the teen another soft smile and feeling his heart race because Thomas looks so _good_ in a worn navy blue hoodie that looks ragged and old. The sleeves are pulled up enough to reveal the beginnings of his tattoos and the delicate, jutting bones of his wrists. His chestnut brown hair is fluffy and messy, carded upwards off his forehead in hazardous strands. He looks cuddly and sexy at the same time.

"I’m glad you could make it," Thomas says, still smiling.

Newt feels his breath come short. "I’m glad I could make it too."

 

The train journey lasts over 11 hours. By the time they get to Vermont, Newt is more than angsty to get off. 11 hours is a long damn time, even if he was sitting beside Thomas, who spends the time doodling in a sketchbook he brought and chatting with the guys.

When the train pulls into the station, Newt has never ran so fast. The fresh air is like a drug and he feels giddy when he takes gulps of it, blatantly ignoring Minho’s teasing and snickering behind him.

They all clamber into taxis, trunks packed with bags and suitcases. They sit shoulder to shoulder in the back seats. When they get to the Mountain Lodge, Newt is more than surprised to find it’s almost a mile out from the actual Mountain Resort and ski slopes.

Inside, the cabin looks freshly built. The walls don’t have a single mark or scrape. All the furniture are oak wood, potted plants dotted around. The kitchen is modern and large, a breakfast bar with stools and a large dining table in a semi-connected room. There is a lounge with deep-cushioned sofa’s and a plush love-seat. The two rooms and a foyer are all open plan, with a wall of windows on the far outside wall, a pair of french doors leading out to what looks like a large decking.

"Okay," Minho begins as he drops his bags down on the dining table. "We’ve got two double bedrooms, one single, a sofa bed and a couch. Who’s going where?"

"Me and Brenda are having a double room," Teresa says.

Minho nods. "Done. One double, a single and two couches to go."

"I want the single," Gally demands, and Newt knows no one is going to argue about wanting to share a bed with that brewing storm.

"As you wish, Galileo," Minho snarks, and Gally snarls at him almost anomalistically.

"Winston and I paid the most for this place, so I think it’s only fair we get a proper bed instead of a sofa," Frypan supplies.

Minho rolls his eyes, " _Fine,_ " he looks to Newt, "Well, I’m not sharing with you and I know Thomas kicks, so you two are sharing the sofa bed."

Newt is about to protest, mostly on Thomas’ behalf, but then, the said teen is smiling broadly, grabbing his bag from the floor.

"Uh. . ." Newt stammers, feeling hot and flustered. He has to share a bed with _Thomas_. This is totally going to end badly.

"Come on, shank," Thomas says, smile shifting into a lop-sided smirk that has Newt’s chest close to _exploding_. "You better not snore."

Newt snorts and follows Thomas into their room, going through a door straight from the living room. The room is smallish, a reasonable size for two people. They have a bathroom attached, so that is a added bonus. Inside, the room has a large sofa pressed against the long back wall, two dressers parallel on the wall with the door, and a long stretch of a window that runs along the entire wall above the couch.

"Cute," Thomas says. "Cute and cosy!"

Newt smiles, shaking his head as he puts his bags down on the sofa. They can unfold it later. He looks into the bathroom, finding a shower, toilet and a sink.

"You okay with sharing a room?" Thomas asks.

Newt comes back into the bedroom, the question, despite holding no aggression or annoyance, has Newt stopping short. He freezes, muscles stiffening.

What is Thomas implying?

He knew it was too good to be true. Thomas doesn’t want to share a room with him, and this is his kind and gentle way of trying to tell him he wants to switch rooms with someone.

"Y-you can switch, if you want," Newt says, trying to stop his voice from shaking. He fiddles with the hem of his sleeve, shifting from foot to foot. "I won’t be mad."

Thomas frowns. "What? I don’t want to. . ." he trails off, frown deepening before it slides off his face completely. It’s replaced by clear guilt. "Oh, you thought. . . you thought I want to switch rooms?"

Newt hesitates. Why does he always feel so stupid? He nods a short and jerky nod.

Thomas smiles gently. His expression is sad and guilty.

"I didn’t mean it like that, Newt," he says. "I was just checking _you_ were okay with it. It doesn’t bother me who I share a room with, and it certainly doesn’t bother me that it’s you."

"Really?"

Thomas nods, still smiling.

"Come on," he says, beginning to walk towards the door. "Let’s see what everyone else is doing."

Newt nods, the worry draining from him, and follows Thomas out of their room.

They find Minho, Winston and Gally outside on the decking, sitting in a small semi-circle of desk chairs. It’s a small garden, just big enough for a stretch of planked wooden decking and a patch of grass. On the decking are the chairs and a folded up table pressed against the wooden fence, and Newt spots a stone BBQ at the end of the garden on the grass, probably for those who are here during the summer. The air is cold and bitter, chilling Newt as soon as he steps out of the open french doors. He can see his breath when he exhales.

"Where’s Frypan and the girls?" Thomas asks, dropping down in the seat next to Minho. Newt tries to hide his disappointment in that there is no seat next to Thomas, and instead he takes the end seat next to Winston.

"Frypan’s whipping us up some food, and the girls are still in their room," Minho replies.

"I’m shucking starving," Gally says.

Minho snorts unattractively, "You’re always shucking hungry."

Thomas huffs a laugh, pulling out a box of straight cigarettes from his hoodie pocket and a blue BIC lighter. "Anybody want one?" He offers as he places his own between his lips.

"Sure," Minho says, as do Winston and Gally. The box is passed around and when Winston looks to Newt expectantly, he takes a cigarette from the box.

The whip of nicotine burns his throat on the way down. He hasn’t smoked since he was with George, and the only time after that was that one time with Thomas on the way back from Teresa’s. Newt feels like that night was a lifetime ago, when he almost blew the relationship he’d barely built because he couldn’t stop himself from asking about Thomas’ parents.

Tobacco and smoke burn his lungs, and he’s reminded of the feeling he felt with George. It’s bitter and poison, an icy acid melting him. _Stop thinking about it_ , he tells himself. _This is it, this is now, and these are your friends._

Newt watches, in slight amazement, as Thomas lights his own cigarette and breaths out a white cloud of smoke. Something so small and disgusted in society, is something Thomas can make look all kinds of beautiful. And that is what he is, Newt decides, beautiful, in every way possible.

They spend ages on the decking, just smoking, laughing and relaxing. It feels good— _more_ than good. It feels _right_ , like Newt is meant to be here with them, like he _deserves_ it.

Very often, during his time outside, Newt finds himself staring at Thomas, his focus captured in the warm whiskey eyes, the way he laughs with his entire body. He’s slumped in the deck chair, curled up with his socked-feet balanced on the edge of the chair seat. He looks relaxed and carefree, and every time Newt catches himself staring, he forces his eyes to move away, dragging them to the view beyond the decking.

The expanse of landscape at the end of the garden is almost as breathtaking as Thomas. It’s a sea of mountain peaks, covered in white icing. There are snow-covered trees, forming a thick white blanket of forest across the entire view. It’s a one in the lifetime sight, but Newt would definitely rather stare at Thomas.

The girls join them not too much later, bringing more chairs out and completely the circle. Frypan brings out the food soon after, handing everyone a plate of chicken selection. Newt digs in, having not eaten all day apart from the packet of Reeses Pieces he’d brought for the train - they’d been passed around, though, and Newt had only got so much as a handful. Despite them leaving early in the morning, it was still gone six in the evening when they arrived at the cabin.

"There’s a small shop about a mile down the road," Frypan explains when they ask where he got the food from. "I got some breakfast too. Everyone all right with sausage and bacon sandwiches?"

They all murmur in agreement.

They stay outside for hours, burning through packets of cigarettes. Newt doesn’t have another one after his first, and he’s slightly thankful when Brenda doesn’t smoke either so he isn’t the only one. Newt wants to be more worried about all their health, and the fact that they don’t seem to be blushing an eyelash at the concept of smoking cigarette after cigarette, but Brenda doesn’t seem bothered either, so he assumes it’s normal.

And Newt is definitely _not_ going to complain about the sight of Thomas’ lips dragging on his own cigarette, the action so soft and delicate but sexy and badass at the same time.

Someone must have got beer too at some point, because as the night sky rolls in, a bottle of beer is suddenly in Newt’s and he begins to feel the pleasant buzz through his veins. Newt has no idea what time it is when everyone decides to call it a night, taking in the beer bottles to the trash and descending to their rooms for their first nights sleep.

Newt swallows down his anxiety when he enters his and Thomas’ bedroom, finding it empty despite Thomas coming in before. Then, he hears sound filtering from behind the closed bathroom door. Newt feels awkward and suddenly out of place, unsure what to do with himself.

The bathroom door opens and when Thomas steps out, his hair ruffled and dressed in a pair of red and green tartan pyjama trousers that cuff at the bottom, clinging to his skinny, bony ankles, and an old tee that hangs off his thin frame, Newt feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

"Uh. . ." Newt gapes, snapping his mouth closed quickly because he’s pretty sure he’s about to start _drooling_.

Thomas only smiles gently, "Bathrooms all yours. I’ll set up the bed."

Newt nods, fumbling through his duffel for his pyjamas and washrag, before he practically _runs_ into the bathroom. Thomas is laughing softly when Newt scrambles to get the door closed and locked. God, he is such a _mess._

Changing into his pyjamas and washing his face, the realisation daunts on Newt that he is going to be sharing a bed with Thomas. He is going to be _sleeping_ in the same bed as _Thomas_.

 _What if he has another nightmare?_ He worries. They still happen sometimes - less than they used to, but still more often than not - and the only reason he hasn’t been caught yet is because Minho is such an incredibly heavy sleeper.

Newt breaths heavy in panic. He braces himself on the sink counter, knuckles bleeding white with the intense grass he uses to ground himself. Fuck, he is being _pathetic_. He mentally scolds himself for being so easy to fall. Thomas must think he’s absolutely lame.

Newt shuts off the self-discriminating thoughts - as much as he can - and brushes his teeth. He wonders with every passing moment, if Thomas is going to be wearing his pyjamas too. What if he gets too hot during the night and wants to take his trousers off? Taking off his top of not an option. Would Thomas be freaked?

When he exits the bathroom, the sofa bed is unfolded and arranged, Thomas sitting on the far side with his legs crossed underneath him and his phone in his hand. He looks up when Newt takes a step into the room, and instantly, his face softens.

"Hey," he smiles. "You don’t have any weird bedtime rituals or anything, do you?"

Newt frowns, "Bedtime rituals?"

"Y’know," Thomas shrugs, "some people have to watch TV to fall asleep, or do exercise, or—"

"No," Newt assures, "No. I don’t do anything like that. I just. . . I sleep."

Thomas grins, "Good, 'cause I’m absolutely beat."

Newt feels his shoulders slump, losing their tension. He smiles back and makes his way to the vacant side of the sofa-bed. Newt places his phone on the bedside cabinet, plugging it into his charger. He turns off the bedside lamp, eliminating the yellow glow that illuminates the room and plunges it into the moonlit darkness. Newt can barely see Thomas’ features, but he can see the outline of his head sticking out of the duvet cocoon he’s wrapped himself in.

Newt huffs a laugh. "You look like a burrito."

Thomas’ laugh travels in the darkness. "Shut up," he says. "I’m cold. Stupid mountain weather."

Newt shakes his head, chuckling fondly and snuggles down into the covers.

The bed isn’t too uncomfortable. Newt has slept in better, but he’s also slept in worse. The room itself is actually quite cold, so Newt does the same as Thomas and burrows down into the blankets and comforter, leaving only his head poking out.

"Night, Newt," Thomas whispers, voice soft and low with sleep.

Newt smiles to himself, chest warming. "Night, Tommy."

He falls asleep easy that night, soothed by the sound of Thomas’ breathing and the comfort of the body next to his.

 

Newt is awake for 15 minutes before he realises how much of a creep he is being. He woke up at the crack of dawn, a soft yellow sunrise glowing through the window and lighting the room. Newt is laying on his side, head resting on his arm as he looks at the sleeping form next to him, and he just _can’t stop staring_.

Thomas’ sleeping form is one Newt has never imagined possible. His face is slack and relaxed, painless and carefree. The soft expanse of his pale skin holds no frown or exhausted lines, but instead, his skin is smooth and creamy. His lips are open a tiny crack, a gentle wisp of breath filtering through, his breathing deep and slow. His eyes are moving behind the lids, the long, dark eyelashes fluttering and brushing over his high, velvety cheekbones. His skin, though pale and colourless, is spotted with moles that Newt can barely resist touching, connecting them like dot-to-dots.

It stuns Newt how young and youthful Thomas looks when he’s sleeping. His form, small and curled up, reminds Newt of a child. He’s innocent looking, with his tattooed arms hidden but the oversized quilt they are sharing, his dark hair messy and unruly.

After fifteen minutes of staring at the sleeping boys face, Newt feels like a creeper, so he slowly rolls out of the bed. Thomas barely shifts, undisturbed and unaware of Newt moving as he grabs a towel from his bag and goes into the bathroom.

It’s only seven o’clock, but Newt has still had a brilliant night sleep. He dropped off instantly, sleeping like a log throughout the entire night until he woke up with his own face inches from Thomas’.

Newt climbs into the shower, feeling the hot water cascade down his back and neck. He feels his muscles ease, the tension pouring out of him like a puddle. He’s still slightly docile from the heavy sleep he’d slipped out of, so he stands under the spray for a few minutes to fully wake himself before he washes himself.

He turns off the water when he’s done, stepping out of the shower and grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist. He goes to reach for his clothes, when he realises he didn’t pick any fresh ones up.

His stomach drops to his feet like a heavy stone.

Shit.

Panic catches in his breath and he sucks in a shallow, strained gasp. His knuckles go white as he grips the towel around his waist. His hands tremble, feeling sick to his stomach.

 _Okay. Thomas is probably still sleeping,_ he tells himself. _Just open the door, grab your bag, and get back in here. Easy._

Newt takes a deep breath. He opens the bathroom door and. . . walks straight into Thomas.

"Shit— sorry, man!" Thomas blurts, stepping back. "I didn’t realise you were. . ." he trails off, eyes racking down Newt’s bare chest. He catches sight of Newt’s arms, his gaze lingering. "Newt—"

Newt slams the bathroom door shut so hard the walls shakes. He stumbles back like he’s been pushed, hip hitting the sink harshly.

"Newt?" Thomas shouts, "Newt! Open the door!"

 _This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This_ **_can’t_ ** _be happening._

Newt’s suffocating. The walls are closing in.

The door opens, and Newt realises he didn’t lock it when he slammed it in Thomas’ face.

Thomas doesn’t cross the threshold. He stands in the doorway, face soft. Newt feels his chest cave in, tears burning his eyes, because Thomas _can’t see this!_ He can’t see his scars, he can’t see Newt breaking down. He feels exposed, vulnerable and weak. Thomas is seeing him inside and out, he’s seeing the _real_ Newt. The pathetic, spineless—

"Newt. . ." Thomas’ gentle voice reaches his ears. He feels his knees go weak and drops to the floor, curling in on himself in nothing but a towel.

Thomas enters the bathroom slowly, slow enough that if Newt flinches or tells him to stop, he can. His movements are cautious as if he’s approaching a cornered animal. Newt curls in on himself even more, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he opens them again, Thomas is crouched in front of him, his whiskey eyes pools of gentle, friendly kindness. His face is assuring, expression nothing revolving around judgement, disgust or humour like Newt was expecting.

"Newt, whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true," Thomas says, and Newt has to stop himself from sobbing. "You don’t have to tell me why, or when, but don’t hide. Please don’t hide from me. You have nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about."

"What do you know?" Newt snarls. He is exposed and breaking at the seams. He’s lashing out and scared, thoughts scattered.

Thomas sighs, the sound opposite anything of exasperation or anger. Instead of speaking like Newt expects, Thomas grabs Newt by the hand, the action strong but not forcing. Newt lets his hand be guided, and feels a pang of surprise when Thomas places his finger down on the inside of his exposed tattooed forearm.

Newt doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he certainly _isn’t_ expecting to feel the familiar surface of raised healed scars under the pads of his fingers.

He gasps, involuntary and unstoppable. Thomas gives him a sad smile, letting go of his hand, but not moving his own arm away when Newt keeps his fingers there.

"My dad used to abuse me and my mum before he left," Thomas explains. "I used to cut my wrists because I wanted to have control over my pain, or at least, some of it. My father was very controlling, and for once, I wanted to be in control of something."

Newt feels something in his chest snap. "Thomas. . ."

Thomas moves, shuffling back slightly and kneeling so he’s completely on Newt’s level. He grabs the bottom of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head before Newt can stop him. He turns around so he’s facing away from Newt.

His entire back is covered in welts. Long slashes reaching from one side of his ribs to the other, all the way down his spine. They’re long healed, scarred white and raised.

"He did this the day before he left," Thomas murmurs quietly. Newt can’t stop himself from reaching out and touching them. They’re rough and raised under his fingers. Thomas flinches under his touch, and Newt reels back like he’s been burned, heart racing.

"It’s okay," Thomas says quickly, "It’s just. . . been a while since I’ve shown anyone."

Newt doesn’t reach out again, but he eyes a small scar on the back on his shoulder, on top of the jut of his bone. It isn’t a slide of a belt or a welt from the buckle. It’s small, round and rough, the healed skin still red.

"What about the one on your shoulder?" Newt asks before he can stop himself. He feels his cheeks burn red, panicking. He’s crossed the line, ruined everything.

"Bullet wound," Thomas replies. He turns slightly, looking at Newt shyly over his shoulder. "Has Teresa ever told you about when I moved in with her and her mother?"

Newt shakes his head.

Thomas shifts, sitting cross-legged so he’s half facing Newt. He looks down at his lap, "When I moved in with them, I was angry. My dad had already left me, and I didn’t understand why my mother left me too. At first, I thought it was my fault, like most people do when they feel like the world has abandoned them. I ran away a lot, not going anywhere, just wandering the streets until a cop car pulled up and took me home. I was angry all the time. Furious at everyone and anyone. I got into fights at school, threw furniture, screamed at Teresa and Monica when they tried to comfort me. I was a mess.

"I joined this gang. Took drugs, sold drugs. I hurt people. It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, and I ignored everyone who tried t help me. This," Thomas points to the scar just below his collar bone, parallel to the one on his back, "was from a drug deal gone wrong. Pistol bullet wound, went straight through and shattered the bone. I would have bled out on the alley floor if Teresa hadn’t followed me that night and phoned an ambulance. When I woke up three days later, I promised I’d never do anything like it again. I must have spent months apologising and apologising like a broken record, but I just felt so _guilty._ I put Teresa and Monica through hell, and all they’ve ever done for me is protect and care and love me."

Thomas pauses, taking in a shuddering breath.

"I got the tattoos to cover up the scars on my arms. I was ashamed, just like you are. I felt stupid. I felt used and pathetic and so fucking weak. I didn’t want to see them anymore. The ones on my back aren’t so bad, mostly because I cab’t see them myself. But the ones on my arms were a daily reminder. They mocked me, tormented me. I couldn’t wear short sleeves, couldn’t get changed in the locker room at school with everyone else. So, as soon as I was old enough, I did some drawings and went to the tattoo parlour. I’d saved for months, and the guy didn’t ask, but I told him anyway. We spent enough time together that I felt like he deserved to know. Three months later, he offered me a job there. Small money, just cleaning and stuff. When I came here, I made sure to get a tattoo apprenticeship along side my courses. The tattoos. . . they make me feel whole again. They make me feel confident and wrong. I know it’s just a cover up, it’s practically a lie to myself 'cause they’re still there. But when I can’t see them, it’s as if I can just pretend they don’t exist."

Thomas meets Newt’s eyes, face open and vulnerable and truthful. Newt rapidly blinks away the hot tears in his eyes.

Newt reaches over, taking Thomas’ hand in his own.

"You’re still beautiful, Tommy," he whispers, "even with your scars."

Newt is so overwhelmed with the description of Thomas’ past that he doesn’t register what he said fast enough, until Thomas’ neck blossoms with a dusting of the ruby red blush.

Oh, sh—

"Come on," Thomas says, squeezing Newt’s hand before standing up. He puts his t-shirt back on. "We’re meant to be on holiday, not attending a therapy session."

Newt huffs a laugh, curling a hand around his towel.

Thomas’ cheeks flush. "Oh—right. Sorry, I’ll just—" he jabs a thumb towards the door, stuttering and fumbling, "I’ll, uh. . . leave you to. . . yeah. Shit. Okay."

Newt can’t stop himself from smiling like an idiot, even after Thomas shuts the door behind him.

 

When he’s finished getting dressed, Newt leaves Thomas in the bedroom, and goes into the kitchen.

The smell of bacon, sausages and egg reach Newt’s nose before he’s even registered who is in the room. Teresa is sitting at the island, a stack of brochures in front of her, and Frypan is standing over by the cooker hobs.

"Morning," Frypan says when he notices Newt as he lingers by the kitchen.

Newt smiles, "Morning. Anything I can help with?"

Frypan nods, "Can you put the bread in the toaster and butter them when they’re done?"

"Sure," Newt replies. _Toast. I can make toast._

A few minutes later, Minho comes out of his room and into the kitchen, wearing a pair of running shorts and trainers.

"Hmm," he hums, slinking towards the cooker where the bacon and sausages are sizzling in the pans. "Something smells good."

Minho reaches for a ribbon of bacon, but Frypan swats his hand with the plastic spatula. Newt has to hold back the snort of amusement when Minho pouts and clutches his hand to his chest. What a drama queen.

Newt is just buttering the last slice of toast when Thomas enters, dressed, like Minho, in a pair of running shorts and trainers. Newt feels his mouth salivate at the sight.

"Ready to go?" Thomas asks, and Minho nods where he’s standing next to Teresa, peering over her shoulder.

"Save us a sandwich each," Minho says on their way out.

After a quick breakfast - Minho and Thomas came back just in time to scoff down a sandwich each and change into their ski clothes - they all clamber into two taxis and head towards the ski resort. Turns out, Gally is even more of a evil spawn in the mornings, but he quickly cheers up to his normal snarky-self when they get their gear on.

"This your first time skiing?" Teresa asks, sitting next to him on the bench where he’s struggling to clip his skis onto his boots.

"Yeah," Newt huffs, becoming quickly frustrated.

"Don’t worry. The only people who have skied before are Minho and Thomas, so you’re not the only one," Teresa assures, flashing him a smile.

"You’ve got nothing to be nervous about," Thomas says, crouching down in front of him and wordlessly grabbing his ski, clipping it to his boot for him. "Everybody sucks on their first day."

Newt snorts, "I have the gracefulness of a new born deer."

Despite his head being ducked, Newt sees Thomas’ lopsided smirk. "I can help you, if you want."

"Great idea!" Teresa says, stopping Newt from declining the offer. He shoots her a wary look, but she passively ignores it as she grins at Thomas. "You and Minho could be our mentors!"

Newt swallows thickly when Thomas clasps his second boot and boar together. _It’s fine. This will be fine. He can’t be_ that _bad!_

 

Turns out, Newt is wrong. He _can_ be that bad. He’s only on the snow for three seconds after he got off the ski lift, before he falls backwards and lands on his ass. Truthfully, he could have been worse. He gets the hang of standing quickly, and Thomas shows him the proper formation and position to stay in while skiing - knees bent, lean forward, arms out - before he’s dragged away to help Teresa, who is _far_ worse than Newt.  
They go down a shallow slope first, a slope that Minho unhelpfully hints is the _children’s slope_ for new leaners. Newt ignores him and just focuses on staying upright.

Newt isn’t the worst skier in the group. Teresa and Frypan are _far_ worse than him, but that doesn’t mean falling in front of Thomas is any less humiliating. Skiing around the brunette is dangerous. One minute, Newt will be looking at him, eyes locked and mesmerised by the dazzling smile on his face, and then Newt will be facedown in the snow. It’s infuriating, but also worth it when Thomas takes him by the hands and helps him up.

"This sucks," Newt grumbles after a particularly embarrassing faceplate. He brushes the snow out of his beanie hat, continuing to grumble incoherently.

Thomas only smiles, "Relax, Newt. You’re a learner, you’re not going to be a pro after five minutes. Jus enjoy it, enjoy _yourself_."

"I am enjoying myself," Newt says. "I just don’t bloody like face planting."

Thomas laughs loudly, "Come on. The more practice you get, the better you’ll be."

Newt watches Thomas glide away, lean and lithe frame swaying and weaving with expertise. He moves through the snow like it’s floating above it, weightless. He’s good. Incredible, actually. He skis like a professional, as if he’s being doing it for years. _Maybe he has,_ Newt realises. Partnered with running, Newt wonders what other sports and fitness Thomas participates in. Newt can only imagine the strong and toned muscles in Thomas’ legs, so balanced and graceful in everything he does.

Thomas spoke, earlier that morning, when Newt’s fingers were brushing over the secrets on his arms, about control. Newt understands the need for control. He understands the feeling of having no control over anything - he has never felt control. It’s something Newt has always felt suffocated by, as if the collar around him is too tight, the lead pulling him along too harsh.

Maybe that’s why Thomas is so skilled in running and skiing - two sports that require control. Thomas has to control his legs, his body movement, his lungs and breathing. Thomas glides over snow weightlessly, smooth and light. He runs with no falter, he walks with no hesitation in his step, fast and skilled as he dodges around people.

Newt is so far into his own thoughts that he somehow falls from just _standing_ , eating snow again and grumbling as he clambers himself up.

Thomas found a new form of control, maybe Newt can too?

But his control is definitely _not_ skiing. Newt soon comes to term with his lack skiing skills and embraces it, because every time he falls, Thomas is by his side in seconds, helping him up and flashing him his signature grin. He looks so happy, so carefree, that Newt doesn’t give a damn about his decaying dignity. He just wants to keep seeing Thomas like this.

As noon approaches, Minho calls Thomas off to go down a few of the expert trails. Thomas goes with an apologetic smile, and Newt shouldn’t feel so disappointed. Newt and the other move up from the children’s slope and go down a steeper one. It’s hard, and Newt has to keep stopping himself when he feels himself beginning to fall. He feels quite smug when he makes it all the way to the bottom without falling, while everyone else is a mess of limbs and spraying snow.

On the third time down the steeper slope, Newt is halfway down when he hears a call from behind him. He stops, looking over his shoulder in time to see Thomas fly past him, skiing so fast he’s barely recognisable. Minho is right being him, snow spraying from their skis as they go impossibly fast, weaving around everyone in smooth, slopes and curves.

Newt is too busy watching Thomas that he begins to slide without consent, crashing directly into Frypan a few meters below him, the pair falling down in a undignified heap.

Noon soon arrives with heavy hopes and Newt is grateful to finally get the bloody skis off. Despite enjoying himself and spending all that time close to Thomas, he is still sore and cod and looking forward to crawling into his bed.

They head to the courtyard and restaurants after they’ve shed their gear, agreeing on some greasy pizza to bring back the feeling in their legs. After, Thomas and Minho decide to go skiing again, while everyone else decline the offer quickly and go back to the cabin.

Newt phones Sonya when he gets in, dropping down the shared sofa bed and dials his sisters number.

"Hey, Sonya," he greets when she picks up, "Sorry I missed your call."

"It’s fine," Sonya replies. "Just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing."

"I’m fine," Newt shrugs, "Skiing is. . . hard."

Sonya snorts over the phone. "Yeah, I can imagine how brilliant you must be. How many times did you fall on your ass? Or did you lose count?"

"Shut up," Newt grumbles, rubbing a hand down his face. Every muscle in his body aches with fatigue. "I wasn’t _that_ bad."

Sonya hums, and sounds amused. Newt can literally imagine the grin on her face.

"And it was only my first day!" Newt adds, as if it will help.

"Okay, Newtie, calm down," Sonys teases. "I’m sure your pride isn’t too bruised."

Newt scoffs.

"So your graceless skiing skills aside, how’s the resort? How’s the _snow?!"_

Newt goes on to explain how Sonya has seen and witnessed snow dozens of times before, and just because he’s sleeping surrounded by mountains, doesn’t make the snow any different. He tries to turn the conversation to how Sonya and his mother are, but she always finds another topic to ask about.

After Sonya has finished and he’s had a small, sweet talk with his mother, Newt manages to hang up at exactly 6:30 in the evening. The idea of moving sounds awful, and every muscle in his body protests, but he is also really hungry and food is a good idea after so much physical exertion. So, he heaves himself to his feet and exits the bedroom.

Frypan cooks burgers for dinner and the group sit outside on the patio to eat. The air, as the sun goes down, turns bitter and biting, so everyone apart from Minho and Thomas - who are smoking cigarettes between them - move inside. Newt finds it ironic how the two runners, the two most athletic, are the ones who chain-smoke like chimneys.

It isn’t long before exhaustion gets the better of Newt, and he calls it a night. He goes into their bathroom, showering quickly to try and sooth his sore, tight muscles. It works, even only for a little bit, and he quickly climbs into the empty, cold bed.

 

Newt jerks awake, a scream caught in his throat and George’s sadistic grin scorched into his vision. He can feel hot tears rolling down his cheeks and the trembles in his limbs as he wretches away from the person shaking his shoulders.

He sobs, hard and raw, skin crawling, lungs refusing to work. He’s suffocating again, being strangled by invisible hands.

". . .ewt? Newt, listen to me. You’re okay. You’re awake now. Newt!"

A pancaked voice filters past the roaring in his ears, and Newt finally manages to suck in a shallow breath. The room is still dark, but Newt can see the faint outline of someone sitting beside him.

"L-light," he croaks. "T-turn on the l-light."

Not a second later, the room is flooded with a soft yellow glow. Newt’s bedside lamp has been turned on, revealing a worried and incredibly concerned looking Thomas crouched at his bedside.

"Are you okay?" Thomas asks.

Newt nods, but he doesn’t dare to speak. He’s still shaking, mind active like a wire, George’s voice ringing in his ears like a siren.

Newt see’s Thomas stand up, disappearing into the bathroom for a few moments before he’s retuning to Newt’s side. A glass of water is extended to him.

Newt takes it without a word, guzzling it greedily. He always has a sore throat after nightmares, as if the screams he was meant to let out have physically scraped the inside of his throat. He finishes the glass, putting it down on the cabinet.

"Thanks," he rasps, feeling embarrassed and small.

Thomas flashes him a small smile. "It’s no problem. You. . . you want to talk about it?"

Newt shakes his head. He notices them that Thomas is still wearing his clothes from earlier, his eyes and hair looking like he’s only just woken up.

"Did I wake you?" He asks, feeling even worse.

"No," Thomas says. "Me and Minho fell asleep outside. I just woke up, and a good thing too because I really don’t fancy catching hypothermia."

Newt chuckles. "What’s the time?"

"A little after one," Thomas answers, standing up. He goes around to his side of the bed, unbuttoning his jeans and stripping them. Newt feels his eyes widen, but he doesn’t look away. Thomas slips on his pyjama bitting and slides under the covers, snugging down into the pillow in away that Newt can only describe as adorable.

"You okay to go back to sleep?" Thomas asks, evidently fighting off a yawn, "Or do you want to stay up?"

Newt looks at Thomas, at his sleep kept hair, his tired eyes and heavy lids. "No. Let’s go to sleep," he says, and quickly flicks off the light.

He falls asleep in no time, and doesn’t wake again until morning.

 

The second day goes the same as the first. They go skiing in the morning, go for lunch at noon and continue skiing in the afternoon. Newt improves, not by much, but the beaming smile of kindness Thomas sends his way when he tells him he went almost the entire day without falling is worth it.

 

"I don’t really feel like skiing this afternoon," Thomas says on the third day. Him and Newt are by the bar, getting the group drinks for lunch. They’ve been skiing all morning, and Newt’s legs are aching so bad he’s pretty sure his muscles have turned to mush. "Want to do something else?"

Newt tries to pretend this isn’t the best news he heard all week. "Sure. What do you have in mind?"

"We’re surrounded by forests and mountains. Fancy a stroll?" Thomas replies, leaning against the bar. He’s wearing his black ski trousers and a tight black long-sleeve thermal, his hoodie wrapped around his slim waist. "Or, we could look around the gift shops."

"We could do both," Newt replies, flashing a smile. "I need to get Sonya a souvenir, but I also like the idea of exploring those woods. They look incredible covered in snow."

Thomas smiles, a cheesy grin splitting his face. He nods, "Shopping then exploring. I know just the place to go."

"Have you been here before?"

Thomas nods, "Me and Minho have come here before."

The bartender comes back with their drinks, and Thomas flashes her a smile and a 'thank you'. Back at the table, the pizzas have arrived and everyone has dug in. Thomas and Newt sit down, passing out the drinks as everyone talks.

When everyone else goes back to skiing, Thomas and Newt head into the shopping area. He buys Sonya a new beanie and his mother a keyring. They take them back to the cabin and get changed. Newt didn’t bring much for hiking, so he stays in his ski trousers, boots and coat to stay warm. Thomas changes into his thermals; a pair of tight black trousers, his long-sleeve top and his ski jacket. Newt can’t decide if he looks hot from the tight clothes, or adorable because of the oversized jacket and the way his ski socks are visible above his boots.

They head out of the cabin and instead of jumping into a taxi at the end of the drive, Thomas leads him so they’re walking around the side of the cabin and into the forestry that surrounds their garden.

Newt walks with his mouth wide open, gaping, staring up at the snow covered trees. The sky above them was a sheet of white, a blanket of light grey dimming the sun that struggles to break through, a promise of more snow later. The scene around him is entirely black and white, the white snow, the black bark of the trees. The branches look like skeleton arms, spirals of a spider web weaving out. The snow cracks and grinds under his boots, his feet sink and disappear under the flakes of white. He follows the depressions left in the snow by Thomas up ahead, his feet falling into where his was. He looks up, Thomas’ black clothes ahead of him like a silhouette.

Newt’s seen snow before, but never like this. It looks like something out of a winter wonderland, unreal and dream-like.

Thomas spins around, like a black wave, and starts walking backwards. His chicken-like legs are thin and stark black against the white sheets of snow on the ground, his arms swaying at his sides. He’s grinning from ear to ear, looking childlike.

"Fancy climbing a mountain?" He says, quirking his eyebrow.

Newt laughs, "A mountain?"

Thomas shrugs, "More like a big hill. Believe me, it’ll be worth it."

"Uh, sure."

"And, if your leg starts to hurt, I’ll give you a piggy-back."

Newt barks a laugh. "What if I say my leg hurts now?"

Thomas’ grin grows impossibly wider. He stops walking, turning around and bending his knees slightly. "Hop on, then."

Newt’s steps falter. He stops, staring with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. He didn’t think that would work. A smile tugs the corners of his lips, and moments later he’s walking quickly and leaping onto Thomas’ back.

Thomas laughs loudly when he stumbles a step, regaining his balance quickly. His arms come to hold onto the back of Newt’s thighs that wrapped tightly around the younger boys slim waist.

Thomas continues walking with Newt on his back. He walks slower, but with no stumble or hitch in his light steps.

"Y’know," Thomas pants, his trek up the side of the crystal white hill side apparently taking the breath out of him, "you’re heavier than you look."

"What!" Newt shrieks, cheeks glowing

Thomas laughs loudly.

It’s just when Newt feels himself slipping, his legs unable to cling on to Thomas’ narrow waist any longer, that the trees surrounding them seem to clear. They break through a wide clearing, and find themselves on top of a white blanketed hill top. It’s a small scape of flat land, and Newt slips off Thomas’ back with a gasp. He lands on his feet, arms dropping to his sides, mouth slack and gaping.

The view that surrounds them in a 360˚ circle is more stunning than the one Newt see’s from the back garden. It’s a continuous strip of white snow and black lines of trees.

"Holy shit," Thomas breaths beside him.

"Bloody hell."

Thomas snorts. "So fucking British."

Newt barks a laugh, playfully shoving Thomas. Thomas stumbles, _actually_ stumbles, and goes ass first into the snow. Newt howls with laughter, bending over as his chest heaves. He’s never seen Thomas without a full-body of control and gracefulness, but one little shove on a hill top sent him head over heals.

He’s laughing so hard he doesn’t see Thomas moving, swiping his legs out from underneath him. Newt crashes into the snow beside him, a cloud of white powder springing up and covering them. Thomas shrieks, and Newt yelps, cold covering them. They lay there, on their backs, staring up at the colourless sky. A gentle wind blows, a bitter, refreshment that caresses their cheeks and breaths through their hair.

"I like it out here," Newt says.

"Same," Thomas murmurs. He sounds almost sleepy.

Newt’s head turns to the side, tearing his eyes away from the grey sky above him to look at Thomas.

Newt doesn’t think he’s ever looked at Thomas and _not_ thought he was beautiful, but right now, with white flakes of snow in his hair, his eyes closed and pale skin almost ivory against the snow, Newt doesn’t think he’s seen something so beautiful.

Newt doesn’t know how long he’s staring for, eyes tracing the moles dotted down his cheek and neck, stark against his colourless skin. He’s still staring when Thomas’ eyes peel open slowly and his head turns to the side, meeting Newt’s gaze.

"What’re you looking at?" Thomas whispers.

Newt shrugs with one shoulder, "Nothing."

He whispers his reply, as if anything above the volume will ruin the peace of it all. It’s silent around them, only the sound of their breathing and a gentle breath of wind to be heard.

They lay there for a little longer, breathing in the tasteless air, until Newt sits up.

"Come on," he says. "I’m bloody cold sitting in this snow."

"You wanna go back?" Thomas replies, sitting up as well as Newt climbs to his feet. "The guys should be back by now. Frypan might be able to make us all some hot chocolates."

Newt hums, "I really fancy a hot chocolate right now."

"Come on then," Thomas replies, climbing to his feet. He brushes off the snow from his thermal pants. He flashes Newt a grin, "Wanna piggy-back down?"

Newt raises an eyebrow, failing to hide his pleased smile, "Seriously?"

"Why not," Thomas shrugs, grin growing, "Wouldn’t want your limp slowing us down."

Newt’s eyes widened, him smile twisting into a sly smirk. "Oh, you did _not_ just say that!"

Thomas laughs, quickly turning around and bending his knees and Newt runs towards him, leaping onto his back. Thomas grunts, barking a laugh as they almost go face first into the snow, his leg breaking the fall just before.

"Heavy lard," Thomas murmurs under his breath, but Newt hears him loud a clear. He swats the back of Thomas’ hair, his brown locks damp from the snow. "Ow!" He cries, but Newt knows it didn’t hurt.

They make it down quickly, and Newt is surprised when Thomas doesn’t tell him to get off when they reach the bottom. Instead, he keeps walking, heaving Newt up when he begins slipping. Newt hides his smile in the back of Thomas’ hair, and discovers that he likes the smell.

He’s still got his nose pressed into the back of Thomas’ head when they get back to the cabin.

"Stop sniffing my hair, you shank," Thomas laughs when they get to the cabin steps. Newt drops down, cheeks blushing violently.

Inside, the cabin is warm and cosy, instantly bringing the heat back to Newt’s hands and toes. The back of his coat and trousers are wet from laying in the snow, the cold seeping through and chilling his skin.

Suddenly, Teresa’s head appears around the kitchen wall.

"You’re back!" She cheers, and a moment later, she’s walking out of the kitchen and towards them. She's dressed out of her ski clothes and in a pair of soft lounge pyjama trousers and a hoodie, her brown hair still flat on her head from her beenie hat. "Where'd you guys head off to? We looked around the shops but you weren't there."

"Oh, no, we went exploring in the woods," Thomas replies, kicking off his wet boots and leaving them by the door. "We climbed a hill and _ohmygod_ , T, it was stunning."

Thomas punctuates the last word overdramatically, grabbing Teresa by the shoulder. The girl laughs, shaking her head and shoving him off.

"Shuck, you're freezing. What'd you do, lay in the damn snow?"

Thomas looks over his shoulder, grinning at Newt. The blonde grins back sheepishly, cheeks burning.

Teresa rolls her eyes, "You dumb shanks."

Thomas barks a loud laugh, throwing his head back. " _Stunning_ ," he says again, tone cheeky, before he's ducking Teresa's slap and dodging into the kitchen.

The pair are left standing alone in the cabin foyer. Teresa looks at him for a long moment, her smile still on her lips. It turns into a smirk that makes newt feel nervous - it's not nasty or aggressive, but somehow makes his entire body tense, hairs standing on end. _She knows_ , he thinks. _She_ knows.

Fuck.

A moment later, she's spinning around, her arms crossed over her chest and brown hair a dark wave before she's following Thomas out.

Newt sags against the cabin door, mind racing. He kicks off his shoes, going into the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the kitchen island, Thomas wedged between Minho and Brenda, leaning on hisforearms on the worktop. Newt wants to walk around, knowing he's bent over, but instead comes up behind Teresa and looks at what they're all looking at. He sees all the brochures Teresa had out the morning before.

"What's this?" He asks.

"We've got three days left," Gally replies, "and we're trying to decide if we want to spend it skiing or doing something else?"

"What else is there to do?"

"Shuck all," Minho huffs, "Which is _fine_ with me _,_ because, ya know, we came here to _ski!_ "

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist, Min," Teresa replies. "No ones saying they don't want to ski, we're just looking at what else we can do."

"There's nothing but places to eat," Brenda observes.

"Well, that saves us from eating Frypan's a cooking," Winston mutters, and if it was meant to be to himself, he does a foul job.

Frypan smacks him around the back of the head, grumbling.

"Don't worry, Fry," Thomas says, standing straight, " _I_ love your cooking."

Frypan grins, "Thank you, Thomas," a moment later, his eyes narrow, "Wait— what do you want?"

Thomas looks at him with a wide, innocent smile, his brown eyes huge and puppy-like. Newt feels swooned. "Me and Newt are just _so_ cold," he says, tone childish, "and you and I both know you make the best hot chocolates."

Frypan rolls his eyes, but Newt can see him preening under the compliment - they all know Thomas actually means it, despite his intentions, because thats just who Thomas _is_.

"Okay," Frypan says, "but only because you do look shucking cold."

Thomas whoops and fist pumps the air, looking at Newt with the biggest grin. He winks, and Newt’s pretty sure the action literally slaps him around the face.

Thomas is right - Frypan _does_ make the best hot chocolates. Him and Thomas drink them out on the decking, still dressed in their soggy clothes. Thomas has a cigarette clasped between his fingers, lit and smoking. Newt watches like he always does, drinking in the sight like the finest wines.

In the end, Newt is simply too cold, and goes back inside after he’s finished his hot drink. He leaves Thomas on the decking, pleased to see Minho already heading out to keep him company when Newt dashes into their bedroom.

He shivers as he pulls off the sodden clothing, peeling it off like a second skin. He dumps them on the bathroom floor and climbs under the hot spray. Instantly, it relieves his muscles and he sighs happily.

He can’t believe he got to spend the whole day, _alone_ , with Thomas. Newt promised himself when he came here, when he finally found the courage to go to college after what happened to him, that he would not fall in love, that he would not let himself fall like a fool. He’d built his walls so high and so thick, so powering and unstoppable, and Thomas has blown them down like a house of cards. He’s knocked Newt off his feet, broken every promise he forced himself to make to keep himself safe, unlike last time. But, now, Newt isn’t sure there’s any remains of those walls left. He has no defences, and he doesn’t know if he’d want them anyway.

It’s then, that Newt realises that while Newt has opened up more than he wanted, and to Thomas more than anyone, the brunette still doesn’t really _know_ Newt. He doesn’t know Newt’s past, he doesn’t know why he has nightmares, or why he limps. And Thomas hasn’t _asked_.

Does that mean Thomas doesn’t _want_ to know? Does he not care?

 _No_ , Newt scolds himself. Thomas must care— this can’t _all_ be an act.

Can it?

Newt doesn’t realise he’s shaking until he has to brace himself on to the wall to stop himself from falling. He can feel himself tumbling down into his own thoughts, rolling and crashing with no soft landing. He needs to stop doing this to himself, but he _can’t_.

He should tell Thomas. Thomas has been nothing but truthful to Newt, nothing but trusting and kind and Newt has been _lying_. All he’s done is lie to Thomas, feigning a whole new person that he’s not. Thomas doesn’t deserve that. He deserves better— better than Newt.

Newt gets out of the shower after he washes, padding himself dry with a towel. He dresses into the pyjamas he grabbed before he came in, skin tingling. Anxiety crawls over his skin like a colony of ants dancing, itching and burning, tingling like a touch he can’t push away.

Thomas deserves better than his lies. He has to tell Thomas the truth.

He steps out of the bathroom, stopping short when he see’s Thomas on the bed, sitting on his pillows, back against the sofa back. He has his legs folded up to his chest, his open sketchbook resting on the knobby knees. He’s drawing something with a pencil, a drafted, rough outline of something sketchy. Newt stares for a moment, Thomas has changed into his pyjamas, his hair slightly damp on his head. He must have showered in someone else’s room, Newt realises. How long was _he_ in the shower for?

He swallows around the lump in his throat. The words keep ringing in his head.

_Thomas deserves better._

"Tommy."

"Mhm," Thomas hums, looking up from his sketch pad.

Newt takes a shallow breath.

_Thomas deserves better._

"I feel like you’ve really opened up to me this week, and I still feel like you don’t know anything about me," Newt admits, talking quickly as if the words are literally coming out like vomit. Thomas looks up, eyes wide and surprised, maybe a little confused, but Newt doesn’t stop talking. "I’m always asking you questions, I’m always sticking my nose in your business, but you never do the same. You never ask, you never pester or meddle. I want you to know, Tommy."

Thomas watches him with cautious eyes. He puts his sketchbook aside, his legs dropping so they’re folded on the bed instead of against his chest. "Newt—"

"I was raped," Newt blurts. His mouth tastes like acid, as if the words poisoned him when they came out. His ears are ringing, but he doesn’t stop talking because he knows if he does, then he’ll never find the courage to start again. "My boyfriend at the time, he. . . he was very controlling. He make me do things I normally wouldn’t do. He. . ."

He chokes. He can feel the tears burning his eyes. He looks through unfocused, blurry vision at his hands in his lap. He can’t look at Thomas.

He’s silent for a minute, and he’s focusing so hard on keeping his breathing controlled that he doesn’t hear Thomas moving until a pale, thin hand is reaching out, holding onto his own in his lap. He looks up, and Thomas has crawled to the end of the bed. He’s sitting in front of him now, legs crossed as they were before.

"He raped me in the back of an alley," Newt continues. He doesn’t know how he’s managing to say this. "He spiked my drink at a party, and then he took me outside and we started walking. I felt so dizzy, and he was holding me up. When he turned to g-go down this alley, I tried to say no but h-he—. . . he didn’t s-stop, and I tried so hard, Tommy, I t-tried and—"

"Okay. It’s okay, Newt," Thomas speaks so softly, so gently, like he’s trying to comfort a frightened child. "You don’t have to—"

"You were open with me," Newt interrupts, "and I want to be open with you."

"I was ready to tell you, Newt. I was ready to tell you, and I did. You’re not ready, Newt. Don’t force yourself to tell me if you’re not ready to."

A hot, fat tear rolls down his cheek. "I want to be ready," he whispers. "I want to be better. It’s been a fucking year, and I still get nightmares, and panic attacks, and—"

"Newt, you don’t need to be ready, or better, yet. It doesn’t matter if it’s been a year, or two years, or ten years. You were. . . someone did something unforgivable to you. You can’t expect yourself to be better after that."

"I want to be better."

Thomas smiles at him softly. He looks sad, "You will."

"I’m getting better," Newt doesn’t know if he’s saying it to tell Thomas, or to tell himself.

"I know," Thomas murmurs. His thumb is stroking over Newt’s knuckles, it’s soft and warm against his own skin. "I know you are, Newt. This is. . . this is going to stay with you, just like what my father did has stayed with me. But, you will get better. You’ll learn to love again, to trust again, because you are strong and brave."

The words replay in his head. Thomas sounds so confident, so kind and proud.

"Thank you, Tommy," Newt whispers, voice barely a croak. There are fresh, hot tears in his eyes, burning.

Thomas smiles, so small, so soft. Newt feels like he could melt under his warm gaze. "You’re welcome. And, I didn’t ask, because I knew if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me."

"Is that why you never asked about anything?"

Thomas’ smile falls, but his expression is still warm. "What would I ask about?"

"I don’t know," Newt shrugs shyly. "My limp, my scars, my nightmares, why I moved from England."

Thomas sits back, but he doesn’t take his hand away. "Tell me then."

Newt looks at him. Their eyes are locked, and Thomas holds no judgment, so harshness. His eyes are still as soft and caring as they were before Newt said any of this. They’re as warm as they were on top of the hill, laying in the snow, content in the silence.

"I tried to kill myself after George. Jumped out my bedroom window, landed on the concrete below. I hit my head and blacked out. My mum found me the next day, laying around the side of the house where I fell. Even after the operation and the casts, I couldn’t walk without the limp. The doctors say I never will."

Thomas is silent for a long moment. He nods, "Okay."

"I moved to England when I was 15 because my father walked out on my mum. That was the first reason why I started. . . why my wrists. . ." Thomas squeezes his hand, a silent assurance that its _okay_. "He hurt me. They all did, and I couldn’t stop the pain I felt."

"So you made your own," Thomas finishes for him. "A pain you can control."

Newt blinks. "Yeah."

"Wow," Thomas says, shoulders jumping with a small huff of a laugh, "and I thought _I_ had baggage."

Newt laughs watery, eyes heavy with tears. "You do. You had every right to do what you did."

"And you didn’t?" Thomas frowns, mouth drawn tight. "Newt, I’m not happy you tried to. . . that you tried to kill yourself. When I joined that gang, when I started those fights and took those drugs, it was a cry for help, even if I didn’t know it. You jumping out of that window was _your_ cry for help. It doesn’t matter what baggage. Baggage is baggage, no matter how big or small. Don’t compare what happened to us. You can’t do that to yourself, or me. What happened to you was awful, and I am so sorry it happened. I care about you, Newt. I care about you so damn much, and _that’s_ why I didn’t ask. But, now I know, I’ll be here when you need someone. If you want to get better, I’ll help. I _want_ to help, if you’d let me."

Newt doesn’t realise he’s crying until he feels the tears roll down his cheeks and tickle his nose.

"Thank you, Tommy," he says again, because honestly, he doesn’t know what else to say.

 

"I had a dog," Thomas says later that night. They’re laying in the bed, facing each other on their sides. Newt had skipped dinner, his confession demolishing his appetite. Thomas had gone to avoid questions, and had brought Newt back a plate of fries Frypan had cooked. "Before my mom died. We had a brown spaniel called Bailey."

"What happened to her?"

"She got re-homed when my mom died. The lady across the street from where I lived took her in. She’d call around Teresa’s house, ask if I wanted to walk her sometimes. She called when she passed away too, let me keep her ashes."

"That’s sweet," Newt replies, smiling. "I had a cat when I lived in England. His name was Sylvester. He died just before we moved, from nothing but old age. I think that’s another reason why my mother wanted to move; she bloody loved that cat."

Thomas laughs softly. "When I finish college and get my own place, I want to get another dog."

"What would you call it?"

"I don’t know. Whatever suits, I guess."

"I’ve always wanted a dog," Newt admits, "but my mother hates dirt in the house."

They’re quiet for a few more minutes. Newt has no idea how late it is, but the sound outside the room silenced long ago, signally that everyone has gone to bed.

"I want to know more about you," Thomas says.

"There’s not much else to know."

"There’s always something else to know," Thomas replies. "What’s your favourite colour?"

Newt laughs. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Blue," Newt says. "You?"

"Green. Favourite book?"

"Birdsong."

"Nice. Mine’s To Kill a Mockingbird."

"My mother loves that one."

"So did mine. I still have her copy in my dorm room."

"That’s sweet," Newt smiles.

He hears Thomas hum. "Favourite season?"

"Spring. I love the flowers. You?"

"Autumn. I don’t know why."

Newt laughs. The whole conversation reminds Newt of the first time they met; at the WCKD pub, sitting at the bar and listening to the _LANY_ song play on the speakers. Newt knew barely anything about Thomas then, and Thomas knew nothing about Newt. Yet now, Thomas knows pretty much everything. He knows the good and the bad, the scary and the kind. He knows things about Thomas that people would use as leverage, as bait and bribery. He knows things about Newt that would make people laugh, people tease and judge. He thought he was going to scare Thomas away. He thought Thomas _knowing_ would undo everything this holiday has done for them.

But, Thomas has only got closer. He hasn’t drawn away, he hasn’t distanced himself from Newt because of his past. If anything, Thomas actually _understands_. Thomas doesn’t feel pity for Newt, he sympathises and relates to him. He’s the one person, apart from his family back home, who know what happened to him, and Thomas reacted better than Newt expected.

_I care about you, Newt._

_I’ll be here._

_You’ll learn to love again._

He already has.

_To trust again._

He most definitely has.

_Because you are strong and brave._

Thomas makes him strong. Thomas makes him brave.

_I’ll be here._

Newt decides then, that he doesn’t need those walls he built anymore.

 

On the train home, Thomas falls asleep. He’s got his hood pulled up over his head, and he’s laying to the side, his back against the window and his knees folded so his socked-feet are on the chair cushion. Newt does his best to focus on his book, but he can’t stop staring at the teen, at his fluffy hair that’s pushed onto his forehead by the trim of his hoodie, at his features that are soft and slack with sleep.

He hears a chuckle, and he snaps his head forward to see Teresa and Brenda smirking at him.

"What?" He asks.

The two girls shake their heads in unison, but their smirks don’t slip.

Newt sighs, putting his reading book down. "Seriously, what?"

"You’re not very good at being subtle, Newt," Teresa says, giggling.

Newt rolls his eyes, scooping up his book and burying his nose in it.

Is he not subtle? If Teresa and Brenda have noticed, then who else has? Has Thomas noticed?

Newt feels a pull to look into the black-leather bound sketchbook on the table in front of him. The pencils slide and roll when the train curves around corners and the carriages sway with speed.

"You can look if you want," Teresa says, and Newt’s eyes snap up from where they’re flicking between his own book and Thomas’.

"Huh?"

Teresa rolls her eyes. "You can look in his sketchbook. He’s not private or touchy about it."

Newt looks at the closed book, then back to Teresa. It feels like an invasion of privacy.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he feigns.

Teresa rolls her eyes again.

"If you keep rolling your eyes like that they’re going to get stuck."

Teresa barks a laugh. She leans forward, and before Newt can stop her, she’s flipping open the front cover of the book and shoving it towards him.

"Take a peak," she says, sitting back. "No one will blame you."

"I. . ." Newt opens his mouth, flapping like a fish.

The brunette smiles at him. "He won’t be angry. Honest. We go through it all the time."

"Does he know you do?"

"Of course he does. He’s incredible, and we all make sure to tell him so," Teresa replies, and somehow her voice has changed from a teasing tone to a serious one. "Here," she leans forward again, turning the book towards her and flips through the pages. "This one is my favourite."

She turns the book towards him, and Newt’s eyes almost bulge out of his head. He knew Thomas was good, but the drawing in front of him looks beyond professional. It’s a black and white sketch, drawn with such detail and shading it almost looks like a photograph. It’s a pencil sketch of a woman, she’s young and smiling, with long dark hair. It’s a side portrait, the woman looking forward but her body to the side, showing the wavy hair that cascades down her back, lost strands in front of her face as if she’s standing in a gust of wind. She’s smiling, lips closed and a content look in her huge, detailed eyes.

Newt’s stomach does flips. He reaches out, his fingers brushing over the used paper as if if he touches it too harsh it will crumble like ashes.

"Who’s that?" He asks, still looking at the page. He wants to flip the page, to see more.

Has Thomas ever drawn _him?_

"My mom."

Newt’s head snaps up and he looks to his side to see Thomas looking at him, his eyes open and half-lidded. He doesn’t look angry, or mad, or hurt.

"She’s beautiful," Newt says. He makes sure to keep his tone in the present. It’s something he’d learnt from Harriet, who’s father died when she was younger - she always refers to him in the present, despite him being gone.

Thomas’ lips quirk up. "Yeah, she is."

 

_— tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave kudos and comments! :)


	4. breaking through ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning: this chapter includes graphic descriptions of panic attacks, and references to traumatic previous relationships.
> 
>  **chapter title:** growing pains by COIN

******PART 4**

The day after they get back from the ski trip, Newt has a morning shift at the coffee hut. He serves sleepy students and cranky coffee-addicts for the first four hours of the morning before he’s dashing off to Professor Jansons’s lecture.

He drops down next to Teresa with a breathless huff, pulling his books out of his bag in time for Janson to stand up and begin.

When his lecture is finished and Newt has three pages of notes, Teresa turns to him and says, "What are you doing now?"

Newt looks at her as he shoves his books back into his messenger bag.

"Christmas shopping," he replies. Christmas is barely three weeks away, slowly creeping closer, and Newt has no idea what to get anybody. All he knows is he wants to buy his sister a new hat and scarf set, but that isn’t enough for her on it’s own.

He’s been stewing in the idea if he gets everyone from college something. Does he get Minho something? Teresa? Frypan? Are him and Gally even friends, or do they just hang out with the same people? He wants to get Thomas something, but he can’t for the life of him think of something special enough.

Teresa’s face lights up. "Perfect!" She beams, picking up her bag and standing, "I can show you all the best places to shop!"

Newt frowns, "Uh, you’re coming with me?"

"Of course," Teresa replies instantly, already shuffling down the isle. "Men are useless at shopping."

"Rude."

"Feel free to take full-offence," Teresa replies unapologetically, shrugging one shoulder. "You couldn’t shop if we gave you detailed instructions."

"I’m fine at shopping," Newt huffs, following her out the lecture hall.

"Of course, and what are you planning on buy everyone?"

Newt opens his mouth, and promptly shuts it with an audible click.

Teresa’s expression is smug. "Exactly. Come on, we’ll be able to catch the bus into town."

They do catch the bus, and it’s a twenty minute shuttle-bus ride into the heart of Manhattan. They shop in a mall of shops close to where they go to grab pizza with the gang.

"So," Teresa starts as they walk through the mall doors. "Who are you starting with? Mom? Sister?"

"Both," Newt replies. He doesn’t mention yet that he wants to buy for all of their friends, and trails behind Teresa like a lost puppy. "Y’know," he says, "you don’t come across as a 'shopping' kind of girl."

Teresa barks a laugh. "I know. I don’t really like shopping. But, it’s not so bad when you have someone to shop _with_. Plus, we can help each other for ideas."

Newt raises an eyebrow at her back, "Are you telling me you don’t know what you’re buying people? After you slated _me_ for not knowing!"

Teresa stops, looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. "Of course I know what I’m getting," she says, "but I’m always open for suggestions."

"Of course," Newt mutters under his breath.

In the end, he gets his mother a photo album that Teresa says she’ll help him fill. He ditches the idea of a hat and scarf for his sister when he see's a classic DVD collection on sale and he buys her some new slippers to seal the present. He buys Aris the new John Boyne book, and Harriet a soft knitted blanket. He gets Brenda and Teresa matching sets of scarfs and hats (he buys then when Teresa is looking at socks to buy Minho). He buys Minho a protein shake maker, because the Asian has spent the last two weeks whining that his has broken. He buys Gally, Winston and Frypan gift vouchers because he doesn’t know what they like, and finally, he buys Thomas a customised Zippo lighter with a elegant _’T’_ engraved into it.

Teresa buys Minho some funky sock sets (and some running ones, because Newt said Minho is always moaning that all his running socks have holes in them), she buys Brenda some new boots, Frypan and Winston books, Gally his favourite body wash set, and Thomas the _Friends_ boxset and a crate of art stuff, ranging from pencils to paints to charcoal.

When Newt asks why she bought Thomas so much compared to everyone else, she looks at him with scrutiny across their table of lunch.

"He’s needed a new _Friends_ boxset for years. The ones he has now are so scratched and battered they barely make it through five minutes without freezing," she replies.

"No," Newt shakes his head. "I meant why _so much?"_

Teresa stares at him for a moment, like she’s considering her words. "Thomas has done for much for me already, for all of us. He. . . he gives but never takes, and he does it so instinctively. He works two jobs, and he’s thinking of getting a third because he’s worried he won’t be able to afford the trip home at Christmas. I want. . . Thomas has had it hard, but he never uses his sob story to his advantage. He hides it, as if it makes him weak. He’s so strong, and he always has been. I guess buying him loads for Christmas is an excuse to repay him for everything he’s done for me."

"That’s. . ." Newt pauses, "really sweet."

Teresa’s cheeks tint pink. "It’s not. We are not _sweet_."

That makes Newt laugh.

"So," Teresa starts, twirling her fork in her spaghetti, "what’s going on between you and Thomas?"

Newt sputters into his water, choking. His cheeks, neck and ears burn red. "I— what? M-me and Thomas. . . we aren’t—"

Teresa smirks at him, the same way she did on the train when they were coming home. "I can tell you have feelings for him, Newt. You’re more obvious than you think."

Newt’s eyes widen. If Teresa has noticed, then who else has? Has Minho? Brenda? _Thomas?_

 _Oh God_ , Newt thinks, _does Thomas know—_

"Don’t worry," Teresa interrupts his thoughts, "Thomas is smart as hell, but he’s also incredibly oblivious. He probably has no clue you like him. He’s too humble, cares too much about other people to think people like him back. I know he likes you though."

Newt’s eyes widen. "He. . . what?"

Teresa’s smile turns kind. "You heard me."

Newt shakes his head, mouth so agape his jaw could pop out of place.

Teresa chuckles at him, and then her eyes turn hard, mouth pressed into a thin line. Her expression is grave and serious, and she leans forward on her elbows. "Newt, you need to listen to me. I’m not doubting that you will, but you can’t play Thomas. My brother has been through enough hurt to last four lifetimes, and he doesn’t need anymore. He’s a good guy, an incredible guy, and he deserves someone just as incredible."

"I agree," Newt says instantly. "I completely agree."

"I’m not saying you’re not good enough, Newt, but Thomas deserves the very best. Can you be the very best?"

"I don’t know." _Probably not._

Teresa stares at him with such intensity, Newt wants to squirm under the gaze. He doesn’t, he just stares back. Her gaze isn’t hostile, just calculating.

"I’m sorry," she apologises, leaning back in her chair. She shakes her head, "I’m too protective of him. Thomas doesn’t need protecting, and he’d moan at me for doing it behind him back— especially to you. I just. . ."

"I get it," Newt nods. "You care. You should care. Thomas is. . . Thomas is. . ."

"He’s Thomas," she smiles.

"Yeah," Newt murmurs. "He’s Thomas."

 

Later that day, when Newt is making himself some pasta in the community kitchen in his building, he wonders if he really _is_ good enough for Thomas.

When they were away skiing, Newt felt closer to Thomas than he has to anyone else ever, but now they’re back, Newt doesn’t know how to speak to him.

What is he meant to say?

_Hey, Thomas, remember when we bonded over our scars and abusive pasts. Good times, right? Wanna go get coffee now?_

Newt mentally slaps himself. He is such an idiot. It’s _Thomas_. He’s not going to give Newt a hard time, right? The ski trip made them closer, and they’re still close now they’re back.

It hasn’t even been two days, and Newt is already thinking himself sick.

 

Newt chews on this for a week, but his worries are futile: Thomas texts him the next day.

They meet at the pub, just shy of midday. Thomas lets him in, having already been there an hour and came straight from his morning shift at the tattoo parlour, and they begin setting up for the evening. Despite Thomas not working, he tells Newt he’s setting up as a favour for Brenda and Jorge, and it’s just another example that stands out to Newt at how selfless and kind Thomas is.

It’s sad when Newt thinks about how Thomas is the kind of person who is likely to be taken for granted. His kind nature and desire to help people makes him vulnerable and open to manipulation, easy for people to use him and take him for granted.

Newt makes himself promise he will never use Thomas.

 _Thomas deserves the very best_ , Teresa’s voices rings in his head.

Despite Newt’s worries the week before, being back with Thomas is like it was before; easy and perfect. Thomas finds no struggle in things to talk about, and Newt finds himself seriously enjoying himself - despite the hard labour of the task.

When Thomas is drying the tumbler glasses, that he asks, "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

Newt looks up from where he’s sitting on the other side of the bar, arranging some crisp packets into a basket.

"Uh. . ." he fumbles, "Nothing. Why?"

"Wanna come to The Flare?"

"The Flare?"

"It’s a night-club in town. We’re all going tomorrow as a kind of Christmas party," Thomas explains. "You should come."

Newt feels a cold sweat break out of his skin. His hands tingle where they rest either side of the basket, close to shaking.

"I—uh. . ." he trails off and swallows thickly.

A hand reaches over the counter, resting on his. He looks up, and is reminded of the evening in the ski lodge, when he told Thomas about George.

Thomas looks like that now; caring and kind and so damn beautiful.

"It’s okay," he smiles. "You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. No one will be mad."

"Clubs aren’t really my thing," Newt mumbles sheepishly.

Thomas’ lips quirk higher. "Honestly, Newt, it’s fine. Lots of people don’t like clubs. I don’t really like them, but Minho won’t let me ditch."

Newt laughs softly. "How did you even become friends with Minho? Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t imagine you guys just meeting."

What he meant to say, was that the pair seemed far too close to just be college friends. Something about their friendship ran deep, the kind that’s rare and pure and luck.

Thomas’ smile changes into one more soft, almost nostalgic.

"I met him in high school," Thomas says. "It was straight after my involvement in the gangs. I think it was only a few weeks after I got out of the hospital after getting shot, but we met on the school running tracks. I don’t know, we just started talking, and I found out that Minho lived in the same block as me. We started getting the bus together, then hanging out after school. Before I knew it, we were going on runs three times a day and spent almost every weekend together. He. . . he helped me with the whole. . ." Thomas waves his spare hand around, " _drug_ thing. I wasn’t. . . it was still hard even after I stopped being involved."

 _I knew it_ , Newt thinks, _they have history._

He finds himself smiling. Thomas deserves good friends like that.

"I don’t know what I would have done without him," Thomas muses, smiling too. "Teresa and her mom were great, and I’m so grateful I had them. But, I just. . . I needed someone who didn’t see it, who didn’t know my past yet. The only thing Minho knew was that I liked to smoke like a chimney and chug back pills like candy. I told him, eventually, and it didn’t change a thing between us."

"That’s good," Newt replies.

"Yeah. He’s good like that."

 _You’re good too. You did this for me. I told you everything, and it didn’t change you_.

 

The next day, when Newt gets back from his afternoon class, he finds his dorm room empty. He’s grateful, for if Minho is out, then Newt will be able to knuckle down with some of Jansons work.

He’s barely got his work open before Minho comes barging through the dorm room door, sweaty from a run.

"Sup, shank," he greets, and doesn’t even wait to hear Newt’s reply before he’s grabbing a towel and sweeping into the shower with one huge motion, disappearing behind the closed door like he was never in the room.

Newt blinks, and turns back to his work.

Minho comes out half an hour later, freshly washed and the open door spilling moist air and steam into the bedroom. The towel wrapped around his waist and bare chest makes Newt instantly focus his eyes on his work. He doesn’t like Minho like that, but there is no deny the guy is physically attractive, and Newt is all about giving people privacy. He does not want to see _that_.

"Can’t you put clothes on _before_ you come out of the bathroom?" Newt asks, a whine high in his voice. He’s face is so close to his paper he might as well be laying facedown on the table.

He hears Minho snort behind him. "Aw, am I getting you all hot and flustered?"

"Shut up, Minho."

Newts cheeks burn. He hasn’t officially come out to their group, but he’s pretty sure if Teresa has concluded that he likes Thomas, then the rest know he likes guys.

It hits him then— does Thomas even like guys?

Newt has known the brunette for almost four months, and he doesn’t even know which way he swings.

 _I know he likes you though_. He recalls Teresa’s words. Thomas must like guys, if Teresa knows he likes him.

Right?

He completely forgot Minho was behind him until a hand touches his shoulder. He’s ripped out of his head like someone grabbed his foot and yanked him out, jerking so hard he almost topples off his desk chair.

"Woah," Minho almost shouts, "Calm down, shank. Only me. _Shuck_ , you’re really jumpy, aren’t ya."

Newt grasps for control over his breathing. "You surprised me."

"I’ve been standing in this room for five minutes, Newt. You knew I was here," Minho replies, and it’s then that Newt notices he’s dressed. He’s clothed in a pair of dark skinny jeans and a white short-sleeve dress shirt, his ridiculous hair styled up in a perfect cow-lick.

"Why you dressed like that?"

"For Thomas’ party, you Bimbo," Minho replies, his eyes moving to rack up and down Newt’s old jeans and skank-y sweatshirt. "You better not be wearing that."

Newt feels like his brain can’t process a single thought. "Thomas’. . . T-Thomas party?"

Minho looks at him like he’s lost his mind. "Yes," he says slowly, "Thomas’ birthday party."

"What birthday?" Newt whispers, struck with shock. It’s Thomas’ _birthday?!_

"He didn’t tell you?" Minho frowns. When Newt shakes his head, Minho barks a laugh, shaking his head. "I know that shank would whip out. We’re all going to the Flare to celebrate Thomas’ 19th birthday."

"He didn’t tell me it’s for his birthday," Newt mumbles miserably. Why would Thomas not want Newt to know it’s his birthday?

Minho rolls his eyes. "Well, I’m telling you now. You coming?"

Newt blinks. "I’m invited?"

Minho rolls his eyes again, harder this time. "Jesus," he rubs his eyes, "How did you get into shucking college?"

Newt’s mouth drops open, and he gapes like a suffocating fish.

"Shuck sake. Get dressed, we leave in ten."

For once, they _do_ leave in ten. Newt dresses himself in a pair of skin tight navy jeans and a knitted sweatshirt thats longer in the sleeves so he can wring his hands in the threaded wool. His anxiety crawls over his skin like a thousand ants, and he doesn’t know if it’s the fear of going to a club, or the fear of confronting Thomas.

There must be a reason Thomas didn’t tell him it’s his birthday.

Maybe he _wanted_ Newt to say no. Maybe he doesn’t want him _there_.

He’s sweating despite the cold temperature, shivering in the passenger seat. He’s too enwrapped in his spiralling thoughts that he can’t even panic over Minho’s dangerous driving, just letting his body be thrown from side to side as Minho cuts corners and curses out the window.

They get to the club too soon. Newt needs more time, more time to gather himself, more time to prepare for rejection.

Teresa was wrong: Thomas _doesn’t_ like him.

"Come on, shank," Minho says, opening his car door, "We’re already late, and for once, it’s not because of me."

The light tone or joke does nothing to ease the weight off Newt’s chest.

Newt doens’t know if it’s a blessing that they see Thomas before they get into the club. The pale brunette is outside, cigarette in mouth as he leans against the club wall. He isn’t looking their way at first, gazing at something across the road, and it gives Newt a moment to gather his scattered thoughts.

Thomas is dressed in a oversized thick shirt, half-way done up and a black top underneath, both loosely tucked into a pair of black and grey checkered skinny pants. His hair is unruly and messy, a style that shouldn’t suit him but _does_. His sleeves, as usual, are rolled up to the elbow, showing the tattoos and due to the oversize of the shirt, the rolled sleeves are loose on his thin arms.

"Thomas!" Minho shouts, and Newt resists the urge to run back and hide behind the car.

Thomas turns to look at them, face breaking out into the smile. The street lights make him look impossibly pale, like a illuminated moon on the side walk.

Thomas meets Minho and hugs him, the Asian clapping him on the back.

And then, Thomas sees Newt, and his heart shuts down.

Thomas looks surprised, mouth open. He steps forward, around Minho, shaking his head. "I thought you said clubs aren’t your thing?"

"Why didn’t you tell me this is a birthday party?" Newt asks, and he’s surprised to hear a cold tone in his voice. He didn’t mean to sound angry, but maybe its a good thing. He’s angry, right? "Why didn’t you tell me it’s _your_ birthday party?"

Thomas looks innocently guilty, and Newt has to back-track because _how does something pull that off?_

"I’m sorry," he says, "You said you didn’t like clubs. I. . . I didn’t want to pressure you into coming just because it’s my birthday."

"Oh," Newt replies lamely. All the anger and cold in his tone was washed out, replaced with what was thick with embarrassment. Thomas didn’t invite him because he didn’t want to pressure him. Sweet, kind, thoughtful Thomas, didn’t want to pressure Newt into something he doesn’t want to due despite it being the most important day of the year for him. _Fuck. When is he going to stop humiliating himself?_

"I’m sorry," Thomas apologises again. "I want you here. I wanted you here, but. . . I didn’t want you to feel obliged—"

"You’re such an idiot, Tommy," the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

Thomas pauses, looking stunned. And then, his face shifts into a shit-eating grin.

"I am?"

"Yes," Newt nods, swallowing up his courage like cough medicine. "If its your birthday, then I _want_ to be here."

"But—"

"Do you want me here?"

"Yes," Thomas rushes, "Of course. Of course I want you here, Newt."

"Good. Then stop making it sound like you’re forcing me."

The confidence in his tone is liquid lies. He can taste the poison of them in his mouth. He wants nothing more than to jump in Minho’s car and drive himself back to his dorm. He doesn’t want to go inside. He doesn’t know if he can.

Thomas is right: Newt feels obliged to go in. The pressure is crushing him, but he can’t let Thomas down.

"Well, if you two are done being soppy shucks, shall we get go inside?"

"Sure," Thomas nods, taking one last drag of his cigarette before dropping it on the sidewalk and stomping on it. "Come on, everyone else is inside."

Inside, it’s like Newt’s worst nightmare. It’s already overcrowded, a sauna of sweaty bodies and music too loud.

 _At least I can’t hear my own thoughts_ , Newt thinks gloomily, as he follows behind Thomas. He resists the urge to reach out and grab hold of the back of his shirt like a child. His heart races with the thought of losing Thomas in this crowd.

The gang are already there, all gathered at the bar. They’re all far more dressed up than Newt has ever seen then, Teresa in a tight dress and heals, and Brenda in a classy looking one-piece trouser set. All the guys are dressed like their going to weddings, just without the ties and blazers.

"Minho! Newt!" Teresa notices them first, coming over. A glass is already in her hand, the flashing colourful lights disguising the true colour of her drink. She looks at Newt with surprise, "I didn’t think you were coming."

"Yeah," Newt laughs nervously. "Well, this shank failed to mention it is his _birthday_."

Teresa rolls her eyes, punching Thomas, who is speaking to Minho and Frypan, hard on the shoulder. The teen jumps, gaping at Teresa.

"What was that for?" He accuses.

"For being a dumb shank," Teresa replies nonchalantly. "How could you not tell Newt it’s your birthday?"

Thomas sighs, or at least, Newt thinks he does - it’s hard to hear over the canon of the speakers. "I didn’t want him to feel guilty."

Teresa scowls, and flicks Thomas on the forehead. "Stupid!"

Thomas rubs his forehead and pouts like a child, and just the sight makes Newt giggle (and is suddenly grateful now the loudness of the music stops everyone from hearing him _giggle_ ).

It’s then, like every other thought Newt gets, the realisation smacks him like a fist that he hasn’t even gotten Thomas a present.

"You don’t need to get me one," Thomas shrugs, when Newt tells him that. "Christmas is soon, just use that as a belated present."

Newt wants to hit him for that. "I can’t do that!"

Thomas laughs, "Yes, you can."

"But—"

"No, 'but’s," Thomas replies. "I’m getting you a drink."

"Thomas—" Newt starts, but Thomas is already disappearing.

"Hey," a hand touches his shoulder, and a moment later Brenda is at his side, "we’re going out for dinner on Wednesday. We’re all gonna give him our presents then, you should do the same."

Newt smiles. "Thanks."

"Sometimes I wonder if Thomas is being honest when he says for everyone to use Christmas as his birthday, but I do believe he is really _that_ humble."

"Maybe he just wants to make a good impression."

Brenda barks a howling laugh, "Yeah. Nice one, Greenie."

Newt has to blink at the nickname: no one has called him that in a while."

Thomas is back before Newt can stew in his own thoughts.

When he hands Newt his glass, the blondes cheeks heat.

"You got me cider." Newt says.

Thomas nods. "Strawberry, right?"

 _He remembers._ "Right. Thank you, Tommy."

Thomas’ eyes glint, and Newt wants to assume it isn’t from the lights. It make’s Newt’s heart swell so large he’s worried for a moment it might burst out his chest.

He speaks to Thomas and Minho for a while - or more like, Thomas and Minho speak, and Newt listens and sips his cider. Minho’s telling Thomas about some route he wants them to run soon, when Brenda comes running over, grabbing them all and shouting, "Birthday shots time!"

Newt has never liked shots. He gags the moment the sour or sharp liquid hits the back of his throat, his stomach instantly swimming with nausea. He doesn’t know how many he has, but he’s pretty sure he’s mastered the art of pretending by the end of their 'round'. Out of the five shots they all got each, Newt only had two, the other three poured into Gally’s drink that was by his arm. Thankfully, the boy doesn’t notice as he takes for a drink almost immediately after the last shot.

Giddy and warm with alcohol, the atmosphere is lighter. Newt finds himself looking around, at the sway of the dancing crowd, at the open spiral stairs that lead to upper floors where he can see people lounged on couches and chairs. He doesn’t recognise the song playing, but it’s loud and booming as it blares out the speakers. He can feel it in his chest, rattling his ribs like pills in a plastic bottle.

Newt sips his cider slowly, but everyone else flies through theirs. Everyone is pretty much on their fourth drink before Newt even finishes his first.

Either their too drunk to notice, or they simply don’t care, but Newt is grateful either way.

"Here," Thomas says at one point, handing Newt his shallow glass.

Newt eyes the dark liquid inside. "Uh. . . I—"

"Give it a sip," Thomas goes on, and while Newt doesn't feel like he's being forced, he's still wary. Thomas' expression bleeds gentle, "it's nothing bad, Newt. I promise."

Newt takes the glass and swallows back a generous gulp, and promptly gags. His eyes water, his throat burns as he hacks and coughs.

He hears Thomas chuckling, taking his glass back before Newt drops it.

"I guess you don't like it then," Thomas laughs easily.

Newt is still grimacing, "What the shuck was that?!"

"Jack Daniels and coke," Thomas replies, taking his own sip. "Don't like whiskey, then?"

Newt shakes his head vigorously. "No. That shit is bloody nasty!"

Thomas throws his head back and laughs hard. Newt feels mesmerised as he eyes the long stretch of his pale neck, decorated with the scattering of moles, illuminated white skin glowing blues and pinks and purples from the flashing disco lights. He finds himself wanting to reach out and touch it, to trace the beauty marks, feel the tendons under his finger tips. He wants to kiss, leave marks of his own.

He feels his cheeks burn. Where are these thoughts coming from? He's never thought like this before.

Maybe it's the alcohol.

"Do you want another drink?" Thomas asks. Newt feels star struck at how incredible Thomas looks, how carefree and soft and touchable he appears under the flashing lights. "A cider this time."

Newt feels himself smile at the kind yet smug expression on Thomas' face.

He looks down at his empty glass. "Sure," he says, "Another cider."

Thomas nods, grinning, and slides between Brenda and Minho to get to the bar behind them.

Newt feels surprisingly giddy despite only having drank one glass. He's surprised himself in his lack of anxiety from being in a club again. He thanks it for the fact that they're by the bar, in a spacious corner instead of in the overcrowded dance floor.

Of course, the safety net soon falls out from underneath him, as as soon as Thomas gets back, Teresa is grabbing them both by the elbows and dragging them onto the floor.

"Dancing time!" She exclaims.

Newts heart soars and he yanks his arm back. "No. No I'm fine here."

Teresa doesn't look annoyed, more confused and disappointed. "You can't _not_ dance to this song, Greenie."

"I don't even know what this sing is!"

"Then _listen_ instead of stargaze at Thomas! Grab your drinks, and get your butts on the dance floor!" And then she's gone, spinning around like a black wave and disappearing into the shadowed bodies.

Newt is gaping. He can't believe Teresa said _that_ in front of _Thomas_.

And he was _not_ stargazing.

"Here," someone says, and he looks down to see a skinny, thin hand holding his drink. He already knows who it belongs to, and takes a moment to drink in the skinny fingers and bones wrists before he meets Thomas' eyes.

"Thanks," Newt replies, feeling awkward and out of place. The entire group are dancing now, so far into the crowd that Newt can't see them anymore. It's just him and Thomas at the bar.

A minute later, the song changes and Thomas gasps next to him.

"Do you know this one?" He asks.

Newt listens, recognising the words behind the blaring base, and rolls his eyes. "Who _doesn't_ know Calvin Harris?"

"Surprisingly, a lot of people," Thomas laughs, he gazes out over the dance floor before looking back at Newt. "Wanna dance?"

Newt resists falling into Thomas' sparking eyes, and instead replies, "I don’t dance."

"Neither do I," Thomas shrugs. "Just bob."

"Bob?"

"Yeah, bounce your shoulders and sway from side to side," Thomas did a quick demonstration, so fast newt practically misses it. "It’s easy, honest."

Newt shakes his head, unable to resist a laugh.

"Come on!" Thomas whines, actually _whines_. "We can look stupid together."

It’s the first time Thomas lies to him, because Thomas is _not_ a bad dancer and he most certainly does _not_ look stupid doing it. Thomas moves like he has no bones in his body, his limbs moving like a skater on ice: complete perfection. He sways, he 'bobs', he bounces and jumps. He dances with Minho, he twirls with Teresa and Brenda.

Newt finds himself moving too, only much more stiff and slow compared to everyone else. He guzzling down his drink, thinking a flash of alcohol might make him as relaxed as the rest of them.

It works for the most part, but it helps when Thomas comes back, standing near him, dancing with him. He grabs Newt's hands, shouting over the music that he's dancing like a dad. Newt doesn't know what that means, but he doesn't get a chance to wonder because Thomas holding his _hands_ and pulling him around.

For the first time that night, Newt finds himself _really_ enjoying himself. Thomas shows him easy dance moves, laughing with him and not at him.

"There you go," he says mirroring Newt's sway. "Yeah," he cheers, "And you said you can't dance!"

"This is hardly dancing!" Newt shouts back.

Thomas throws his head back, and Newt decides he will never get tired of watching Thomas laugh with his whole body.

It's not long later that the dance floor becomes more crowded. Bodies surround Newt on every side, getting closer and closer. The room is suddenly too hot, the air running out. He feels himself flinch and jerk every time someone brushes against him. Sweaty bodies box him in, faceless people closing him in. He's trapped. He's back with George. He can feel his hands on him, fingers digging into his flesh. He can feel hot breaths on him, ghosting whispers.

His head is spinning. There's no air for him to breath. His feet are unsteady underneath him, he stumbles to the side and when hands catch him, he flinches like he's been struck.

He hears someone calling his name, but he's underwater. He can't hear a thing, it's all muffled and clouded. His vision darkens, the flashing lights hurt his eyes.

He has to get out.

He has to get out.

He has to—

He's shoving through the crowd. He pushes and pushes, breath quickening with every touch against his skin. His legs are shaking so bad, feet so clumsy and threatening to hurtle him to the floor.

He breaks out the crowd like light breaking through curtains. He stumbles, almost face-planting the floor before he catches himself, sprinting unsteadily towards the way out.

He falls through the exit, and crashes to his knees on the sidewalk.

He's so deep in his panic that he doesn't wonder how pathetic he must look, on his hands and knees panting breathlessly. All he can think about is why his stupid lungs _won't work_.

There's hands on his shoulders, hands on his cheeks. He flinches, crying out, and then the first shout of sound breaks through the water flooding him.

"—ewt, listen to me. Newt! You need to calm down."

The sound fades away like he's dragged back down under the current, but he finds the strength in himself to look up. Through unfocused vision, he recognises the white skin and contrasting big, dark eyes.

Thomas' mouth is moving, but Newt can hear a thing over the roar of blood in his ears. His lungs have crashed, endlessly deflated. They scream for oxygen, head so tight and pressurised he feels like his skull is cracking from it, splitting from the strain fighting to get out.

A cold, soft hand cups his cheek, tilting his head up. He meets Thomas' eyes, his huge, concern filled eyes. A hand grabs one of his own, and Newt watches Thomas place it over his over chest.

Instantly, he feels the rhythmic thump of a thumping heartbeat. He feels the regular throb under his palm, pulsating through his fingers.

"Listen to me, Newt," Thomas voice reaches his ears. It's far away, distant and muffled, but he hears it. "Listen to my heartbeat. Breath with me."

"I—I c-c-can-n't-t—"

"You can," Thomas says confidently, nodding. "You can do it, Newt. Do it with me. In, one, two, three, and out."

Newt tries, he fucking tries, but it's futile. He chokes on nothing. Panicking as his throat and stomach spasm. He's going to vomit, and then he is going to choke on it because his throat has closed up.

"Newt, try again."

Newt does, and he chokes, letting out a strangled cry of frustration and fear.

"Try again."

He fails.

"Try again. Come on, Newt. You can do it, copy me."

It feels like a lifetime, but eventually, his lungs show him mercy and allow a gasp of air in. Oxygen floods his lungs, burning his chest.

He gulps air like a fish gulps water, greedily swallowing large gasps to feed his deprived lungs.

Thomas hands don't leave him. He holds Newt's cheek, and holds his hand to his chest.

"That's it," Thomas murmurs, voice silky soft.

He hears footsteps approaching before a foreign voice speaks directly above him.

"Excuse me," they say, "should I call someone for you guys? Does he need an ambulance?"

"We're fine, thank you," Thomas replies quickly, and Newt is thankful for it. He's still greedily gulping air, and he doesn't trust his voice. "He just got a bit claustrophobic, that's a all. You know how clubs are. Thank you, though, really."

"All right," they reply, sounding wary and unsure.

As soon as Newt hears the sound of retreating footsteps, he feels the coiled up panic untie in his chest. The energy drains out of him with it, and he finds himself slumping bonelessly on the sidewalk.

"Do you think you can stand?" Thomas asks in a hushed tone.

Newt shakes his head. No chance. He feels as steady as a new born foul. If he stands, he going to fall straight back down.

He watches Thomas nod. "Okay," he says. "What if I help you? We're right in the middle of the sidewalk."

Newt nods, only because he doesn't want an audience anymore.

He feels hands pulling him to his feet, and he leans his entire weight into Thomas as the younger boy practically half-carries, half-drags him to the wall of the club, leaning Newt against it and guiding him back down to the floor. Newt sinks so he’s sitting on his ass, knees drawn up to his chest. He rests his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as he breaths slowly through his nose, the nausea settling in his stomach.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I just had panic attack in front of a crowd of strangers," Newt snaps viciously. He opens his eyes in time to see Thomas wince and look away, and he instantly feels the punch of guilt in his stomach. "Sorry," he apologises.

Thomas shakes his head. "It's fine," he says, meeting Newt’s eyes and flashing him a small smile. His eyes flick away restlessly, eyeing the other people on the sidewalk. "Do you want to go back in?"

Newt’s stomach lurches at the thought. "No. _Fuck_ , no. No, I can’t—"

"Hey," a hand touches his, cutting him off. Newt looks down at Thomas’ hand resting on his, and then back up to the brunette. Thomas is looking at him directly in the eye. He’s crouched so they’re the same level. "It’s okay. We don’t need to go back in."

"I’m sorry," Newt whispers. He swallows thickly, throat dry. He can’t believe he’s done this. He’s ruined Thomas’ evening. "I didn’t mean to ruin your evening. You should go back inside."

Thomas looks at him like he’s grown a second head. "Don’t be shucking stupid."

Newt feels his eyes widen.

"You haven’t ruined anything, Newt," he says, this time softer. "It wasn’t your fault. It was getting stuffy in there anyway, needed some air."

Newt smiles, appreciating the lie. He knows Thomas was having fun, that he didn’t need any air: another act of Thomas’ kindness.

Newt doesn’t move his hand from under Thomas’, and he has to fight back the smile when Thomas’ thumb starts to gently rub over his knuckles. The teen is still looking around them, almost curiously, and the action on Newt’s hand seems unconscious.

A moment later, the club door bursts open and they both look in time to see Minho, drunk as a hell, stumble out the threshold.

"Jesus, Minho," Thomas sighs, pushing on his knees and standing up. He takes a step forward, and promptly catches Minho as his foot catches a slat in the sidewalk. Minho is flung forward, giggling like a school girl as he crashes into Thomas’ chest. The younger boy lets out an 'oomf' as he catches his friend, stumbling back.

"Thomas!" Minho shouts, slumped in his arms, "The birthday boy!"

"Yes, Minho. I’m the birthday boy," Thomas replies, grunting as he helps Minho stand straight, eventually giving up when Minho claws at him like a animal, wrapping his jerky limbs around him like a lemur.

"Jesus, Minho," Newt finally says, "How bloody klunked are you?"

Minho bursts out laughing so suddenly both Thomas and Newt flinch. He's howling, falling out of Thomas' arms and bracing himself on the wall by Newt.

"Klunked," he repeats, wheezing. "Bloody klunked!"

He's practically roaring with hysterics. Both Newt and Thomas look at teach other, expressions amused but exasperated.

"Okay," Thomas starts, heading towards his best friend, "I think it's time we take your home."

"Noooo," Minho whines, pathetically scrunching up his face in a pout and acting as if he's trying to _curl into the wall_ to get away from Thomas.

Thomas rolls his eyes, grabbing Minho forcefully yet gently by the shoulders and easing him off the wall. Minho falls into him unsteadily, draping his arms around Thomas' neck.

For a moment, Newt is certain Minho is going to miss him. Their faces are so close, and Minho is so drunk Newt wouldn't be surprised. He'd be pissed, but not surprised. Minho does seem like the affectionate-drunk type.

"You're such a fucking child, Minho," Thomas grunts, clearly struggling to hold up the deadweight of Minho. He looks down at Newt, juggling Minho in his arms.

"Do you want a lift?" He asks. "I'm going to take him back to mine. It's closer."

Newt is about to nod, when it occurs to him to wonder if Thomas was inviting him back to _his apartment_ , or just a lift back to his and Minho's dorm room.

Apparently, the confusion is clear on Newt's face, as a moment later, Thomas is jumping as if it physically struck him.

"You can come back to mine. Probably be best to do minimal driving," he shrugs, shrugging Minho higher so the limp teen has a arm around Thomas' shoulder and the younger boy has his arm wrapped around his waist. Seeing Thomas struggle to hold up the weight alone, Newt scrambles to his feet and mirrors the same position on Minho's other side.

Thomas smiles at him. "Thanks."

"No problem," Newt nods, forcing himself not think about how close their hands are on Minho's back.

The club door bursts open again, and the whole gang come clambering out.

Teresa's face lights from her beaming smile to smug hysteria when she sees them holding Minho up.

"Shucking Hell," she says, "What a mess."

"Stupid shank always drinks too much," Gally sneers, but Newt is surprised to hear no hostility in his tone.

"Tell me about it," Thomas replies. "Look, we're gonna take Minho home—"

"What!" Teresa interrupts, face falling. "You can't go home! You're the birthday boy, and the night is still young!"

"And so am I. I have plenty of other birthdays," Thomas replies, and Teresa rolls her eyes. "T, Minho needs to go home."

Teresa grumbles something under her breath.

"Don't go," she whines, "We've got loads of places we're gonna go. Come with us!"

"Teresa, look at him," Thomas laughs, motioning to Minho. "I won't enjoy myself knowing he's like this."

Teresa pouts and crosses her arms, and Newt can imagine her in that moment stomping her feet on the ground like a child having a tantrum. "It's your birthday, Tom."

Thomas smiles, "Yes it is, and it has been the best birthday ever."

He lets Minho drop, leaving Newt to hold him up as he crosses the floor and pulls Teresa into a hug.

"And, _because_ I am the birthday boy, I choose when I go home."

Newt watches Teresa roll her eyes again, "You’re such a grandpa."

Thomas’ laugh rings loudly, "Thanks, T."

They pull away, sharing a moment between them that by watching, Newt feels like he’s intruding. He doesn’t look away, regardless, and the pull away a moment later.

Thomas steps back to support Minho with Newt, shouting, "See ya guys! Have fun, stay safe, and don’t make out with any strangers!"

Half the group shouted 'goodbye', and the other half flipped Thomas off.

They walked away laughing, carrying Minho between them.

"You passed out on us, Min?"

The lack of reply confirms Thomas’ question. Thankfully, Minho parked just outside the club, so they don’t have to carry him far.

"Hold him," Thomas says, "I’ll find his keys."

"I can drive," Newt offers as Thomas pulls away to rummage through Minho’s pockets, "I've drunk less than you both."

"Maybe, but you can't drive after that panic attack," Thomas says, and the way he says it makes it sound like he's speaking from experience, like he _knows_ you can't drive after a panic attack. "It's fine. I haven't drunk that much."

"Thomas—"

"I wouldn't drive if I knew I couldn't, Newt," he interrupts. He's looking Newt straight in the eye, his own eyes clear and open and unmasked. "I promise. We'll be fine."

Newt knows he's an idiot for climbing in the car, but Thomas wouldn't promise something he can't keep.

And his promise is kept.

They make it to Thomas' apartment block in sensible yet quick time, Thomas driving and parking as if he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol. Minho woke up at some point during the drive back, sitting up from where they sprawled him on the backseat, complaining that he feels like he’s going to throw up.

"If he throws up in his own car, we’re going to get the blame in the morning," Thomas had said, eyeing the drunk teenager in backseats.

Now, the pair struggle to get Minho up the stairs of Thomas’ apartment building. Thomas explained the elevator is broken - as it has been for months - so their only option is the stairs. When Thomas breaks to the news to him that his apartment is on the top floor, Newt could sob. He only got a brief view in the dark of the building, but dark or not, he knows it’s tall.

"How many?"

"Sixth floor."

"Fuck."

Newt is breathless when they get to the top of the sixth stair case, and Thomas chuckles lightly at his pants and wheezes.

"Shuck off," Newt pants.

"Come on," Thomas nods down the hall, "Third door on the left."

They shuffle down the narrow corridor until they come to the third door, where Thomas shoves a key on Minho’s set into the door and turns it.

"Those are Minho’s key," Newt says.

"Yeah. He has a key to my apartment. So does Teresa," Thomas replies. The door unlocks with a click and he jabs the handle down, pushing it with his foot so it swings open. "Comes in handy in times like this, ay? Come on."

Newt doesn’t know what he expected of Thomas’ apartment, but he certainly didn’t expect what he sees.

The apartment is like a converted industrial loft, exposed brick walls, dark wooden furniture and cracked brown leather couches. The ceiling is high, huge windows. There’s a single door in the corner, and a metal spiral staircase beside it that leads to an open in-cave in the wall. Its open plan, with a small kitchen set up to the right, all retro dark woods and hanging cone lights. On the left, is a pair of wide leather couches, the brown material cracked and spider-webbed with age. There’s a wooden table with a TV set-up on it, and around it, stretching from floor to ceiling, are floating bookshelves of thick lengths of wood, each one overcrowded with books and ornaments.

It looks like something out of a home magazine, so effortlessly rustic.

"It’s nice," Newt says, and instantly slaps himself. _It’s nice_. Is he fucking stupid?

Thomas huffs a laugh. "Thanks. Come on, he’s getting heavy."

"He’s always been heavy," Newt replies, grunting as they shuffle towards the closest couch. They deposit Minho on it, the Asian grunting something muffled and unintelligible before he rolls onto his front, legs and arms draped over the leather, and falls back to sleep with his face squashed and mouth open.

Thomas breaths out heavily, both of them staring down at the sleeping teen.

"Remind me to tell him he owes us one," Thomas says.

Newt snorts. "No problem. Has he always been like that?"

"For as long as I’ve known him. Minho can _not_ handle his drink."

"I’ve noticed," Newt murmurs, watching Thomas make his way into the kitchen. "D’you reckon he’ll feel it in the morning?"

Thomas barks a laugh, throwing his head back. He has his back to Newt, doing something on the counter. Newt makes his way over slowly.

"Of course. Bitter sweet karma has it’s ways. Minho’s cocky drinking always comes back to bite him on the ass. _Always_ ," Thomas looks over his shoulder and winks at him. Newt’s heart swoops in his stomach. He _winked._ "He’ll have a hangover from hell when he wakes up."

Newt laughs, sparing a glance at the sleeping teen again. Bitter sweet karma.

"Mind you, we’re the ones who have to deal with his whining and moaning," Thomas adds.

" _That_ I am not looking forward to," Newt replies, finally pulling out the bar seat from under the island unit and sitting down.

He looks around again. Eyes trailing up the staircase. He cranes his neck up, but can’t see into the room.

"What’s up there?" He asks.

Thomas looks at him, then above, then back to him. "Bedroom. We can sleep up there. Minho snores when he’s drunk."

Newt’s head spins, his eyes close to bulging out. Thomas wants to sleep in the same bed. He wants to sleep in _Thomas’_ bed, with _Thomas_.

Oh fuck.

"Uh. . .—"

"Don’t freak out," Thomas says softly, "I can sleep down here, if that makes you more comfortable."

"It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s— it’s cool. I don’t— I—"

"Calm down," Thomas is suddenly in front of him, reaching across the breakfast bar, touching his hand. The cool warmth of his skin grounds Newt like an anchor, bringing him back down. "You don’t have to—"

"It’s fine," Newt nods, calmer. "I didn’t mean to freak out. I just. . ." he trails off, shaking his head.

"We’ve shared a bed before," Thomas supplies, his tone as if he’s trying to make it less awkward. The effort helps. "I can run you home."

"No," Newt shakes his head. "No, you don’t need to do that for me. I can stay, if you’re okay with it."

Thomas smiles, "Of course. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t."

He turns back towards the other worktop, pulling two mugs out of a cupboard.

"So," Newt twirls his fingers, suddenly restless, "why do you stay here instead of in one of the dorms?"

"Believe it or not, it’s cheaper here," Thomas replies, turning around. "Plus, it’s in-between college and the tattoo parlour, right by a subway station."

Newt nods. "Handy."

"Indeed," Thomas grins, sliding him a mug. "Coffee. Perfectly alcohol free."

Newt huffs a laugh. "Thanks."

He sips it slowly, blissfully burning and bitter on the way down. He looks down at the drink cupped in his palms, the swirling dark colour reminding him of the teen on the other side of the kitchen island. The shade of Thomas' eyes seem to change shade, or maybe Newt just simply can't decide on what shade they are. They switch from cinnamon, to whiskey, to coffee, to hazel. Newt has never been in love with someones eyes before, and he can't work out if that's because the colour is so hypnotising, or because Thomas speaks through his eyes. Thomas has never been closed off with Newt before, but the British teen is experienced enough to recognise guarded eyes, and Thomas wears them like a heart on his sleeve. Newt has learned that Thomas hides behind beaming grins and kindess, his own nightmares and scars disguised with tattoo ink and friendliness. One thing Thomas doesn't do, is hide his emotions in his eyes. With all of Thomas' other patterns, Newt guesses this isn't because Thomas can't hide his emotions, but perhaps he just chooses not to anymore.

"Are you all right?"

Newt looks up, meet those coffee bean brown eyes, so big and framed with his ridicuously long eyelashes.

He nods, "I'm fine."

Thomas sips his coffee, grinning a moment later. "Come with me."

He's moving from the kitchen without another word, going to the corner by the couches and opening one of the windows that isn't wall-length. Newt follows with a slight frown, confused, and then pertified when Thomas climbs onto the ledge.

"Thomas—" he calls in panic, because Thomas' apartment is on the sixth floor and he's climbing out of a damn window, but Thomas just looks over his shoulder and grins.

He pushes off the ledge, and Newt's heart ridicuously jumps into his throat. He hears the sound of creaking metal, running towards the window Thomas climbed out of. . . and finds him standing on a fire escape.

Newt drops his head to his chest in embarrassment, Thomas laughing lightly.

"Such a worry-wart," Thomas muses, and Newt looks up in time to see Thomas sip his coffee and look away. The fire escape is a comfortable size, and they sit so they're legs are hanging over the edge through the bars. The view from Thomas apartment is surprisingly mesmerising. He lives in the Astoria part of Queens, the buildings around him tall apartment buildings similar to his.

"Y'know," Thomas starts, breaking the silence they'd fallen into for a while, "if you catch it at the right time, this sis the perfect place to watch the sunset."

"Or the sun rise," Newt replies, looking out over the rooftops.

Thomas nods. "Or the sun rise."

"It's nice here," Newt says. "Honestly, I can see why you stay here instead if those bloody dorm rooms."

"Don't knock those rooms," Thomas laughs. "They're perfect for freshmen. On campus, no chances of being late, twenty-four hour libraries right on your door step!"

Newt laughs at that, "Fair enough."

The silence stretches, Newt spending his time gazing down at the empty streets below, lit with the dim yellow glow of the streetlights.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Thomas asks, and it takes all of Newt's control not to drop his mug. He doesn't look up from below, but he see's Thomas looking at him from the corner of his eye. "It's all right if you don't. I don't mind, I won't judge."

"I know you won't," Newt whispers. He takes a deep breath, the courage boiling in his stomach. "There was just too many people. Not enough air. It reminded me of George."

"It's okay."

"It's not okay!" Newt bursts, putting the mug down harshly, it clanking loudly with the metal. He runs his hands through his hair, tugging on the strands. "Fuck. It's not okay! I can't do anything anymore wihtout freaking out like a baby!"

"Newt," a hand touches his shoulder, "you're allowed to freak out."

"But it ruins everything!"

"It didn't ruin tonight," Thomas' voice is so soft, tone so gentle, that it's like pouring fuel on a fire. It only feeds Newt's frustration and anger.

"It did!" He practically screams. "If I hadn't freaked out, we wouldn't be here. We'd be at the club, drinking and having fun instead of sitting here because I am too much of a fucking weak child to handle it."

"Okay. You're right," Thomas says, and Newt finally meets his eyes, "If you hadn't had that panic attack, we wouldn't be here. We'd be walking around Manhattan trying to find Minho because he ran off, like he always does because he is the child. Why can't you see that I didn't mind coming here? You didn't ruin anything, Newt. I would have come home at some point, but this way I'm not drunk off my ass and alone. I'm with you, drinking coffee, and listening to the peaceful silence. Believe it or not, but that doesn't sound like a ruined evening to me."

Newt smiles weakly, tears in his eyes. He looks down at his lap, "George has just made me so paranoid."

"You're not paranoid. You're just cautious, and that's no bad thing."

"It is. I don't want to be cautious. I want to be normal, I want to be fun."

"You are fun."

Newt scoffs, "Don't lie to me, Thomas. It doesn't suit you."

"I'm not lying. Maybe your definition of fun is different from mine, but I think you're fun. When I'm with you, I have fun."

Newt stares at him, at those damn eyes. "Really?"

"When have I ever lied?"

"When you said you couldn't dance," Newt replies, words falling from his mouth like word vomit.

His cheeks burn red, blush dusting his skin in cherry. Thomas grins at him, practically beaming shyly.

"Maybe I'll teach you someday," Thomas replies. "But, you're not as bad as you think."

Newt rolls his eyes, but smiles none-the-less. "I'd like that."

 

Newt wakes up alone. He rolls onto his side, opening his eyes to see the side of the bed vacant. He can’t resist reaching out to feel the rumpled bedsheets, seeking the warmth that’s no longer there. Thomas must have been up a while.

He sits up slowly, head woozy from the short night sleep. Him and Thomas called it a night around five, after spending hours sitting on his fire escape talking and relishing in the comfortable silence of the sleeping city. Newt picks up his phone, **_9:26 AM_** , it reads. He rubs his eyes, flopping back down into the pillows.

_Thomas’ pillows._

He can’t believe he slept in Thomas’ bed. _Thomas’_ bed.

He felt the difference from when they were skiing. Sharing a bed then was hard to begin with then, but Newt spent so long last night, once they’d finally gone to bed, just _thinking_ about how he wasn’t just sharing a bed with Thomas, but he was sharing _Thomas’_ bed.

He may be being dramatic, but it’s the comfiest bed he’s ever slept in. It’s a double bed with a king-size duvet, overhanging the sides and ends. He has dozens of fluffy blankets on top and under the covers, smothering the entire bed, claiming his heating often gave out so it gets cold, and at the end of the day, he lives in a converted loft apartment. Newt appreciated the blankets during the night anyway, as he did the dozens on pillows Thomas has as well.

He doesn’t want to get up, but he also doesn’t want to seem like a slop and over stay his welcome. . . in Thomas’ bed.

He throws the covers back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touch the cold wooden floor, a shiver running up his spine. Thomas leant him some pyjama trousers and a hoodie, practically promising Newt he’ll get cold enough in the night to need a jumper and not just a t-shirt.

Thomas was right, of course. Newt was freezing until he snuggled down into the cocoon of blankets and quilts.

Newt looks up, walking to the end of the small floor and looking over the rails into the rest of the loft.

Minho is still passed out on the couch, sprawled out like a octopus. Newt can’t see Thomas, so he heads town the spiral staircase. Thomas isn’t in the kitchen either, and feel out-of-place, Newt takes a seat on the other couch, wrapping his arms around his torso from the cool chill of the loft. He eyes Minho across from him, the Asian’s clothes crinkled from sleeping in them and his hair pathetically flat on his forehead. The teen is a mess, and every sense of the word.

Newt rolls his eyes, and in the process, his eyes fall onto the window leading out to the fire escape. The window is open, and Newt sees a figure standing just outside, leaning on the rails, back to the loft.

He see’s clouds of white smoke rise above the head of mused and messy brown hair. Even from behind, Newt can just imagine the messy locks of his dark hair on his forehead, the dazed look of his sleepy brown eyes. He wants to go out there, to make Thomas turns around, to speak to him like they spoke the night before, but he can’t do it. Thomas stands silent beyond the window, apparently comfortable in the peace around him, and Newt is perfectly happy with looking.

"Stop being a perv."

Newt’s head snaps forward, and finds Minho staring back at him through half-lidded eyes.

He opens his mouth, and then closes it. He gapes and fumbles like a fish.

"I—. . . I’m not— I—"

Minho scoffs at him, sinking into the couch even more. "You were totally staring."

"I was not!" Newt yelps. He looks back at the window in time to see Thomas begin to turn around, and he stutters out a fumbled, "I didn’t, Minho. I wasn’t staring—"

"Yes, you were," Minho denies, expression so smug.

Newt practically snarls. "Shut up, Minho."

Minho chuckles, and then instantly, his face scrunches up in a frown and his eyes clamp shut.

Thomas walks in in time to hear Minho pathetically whine about his head hurting, and Newt has never been so grateful for the bittersweet charm of karma.

His cheeks burn as he watches Thomas’ long thin legs lead him further into the room, stopping so he’s standing over Minho’s squirming body on the couch.

"Got a headache, Min?" He asks, grinning like a smug child.

Minho whines. "Shuck off."

Thomas throws his head back and laughs, and it’s then that Newt realises he is screwed.

So, so screwed.

 **_  
_ ** _— tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't had time to go back an spell/grammar check this, so if anything is really wrong leave it in the comments and i'll go back to change it :)
> 
> thank you for reading! <3


	5. taught me to love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took so long (i feel like all i do in these notes is apologise for how long it takes me to update), but this chapter was really hard to write for some reason and i didn't want to rush it.
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy this final chapter. the next will be an epilogue! :)
> 
>  **chapter title:** the good side by troye sivan

******PART 5**

A week after Thomas' birthday, Newt walks into the coffee house for his afternoon shift and spots Frypan and Minho sitting at one of the tables. Newt decides to head over to them, still having plenty of time before his shift actually starts.

It's Frypan who notices him first, "Newt! Hey, man."

Newt smiles, raising a hand in a weak wave. Minho turns and looks at him over his shoulder as he comes to stand by the table.

"What are you guys doing here?" Newt asks, leaning on the back of an empty chair at their table. It's then that he eyes the chair opposite, a coat slung over the back and the two extra empty mugs on the table top. "Is someone else here with you?"

Frypan nods, "Teresa and Brenda. They're in the restroom."

"Together?" Newt frowns.

Frypan smirks at him, "You know nothing about women. Lesson one, brother, females _never_ go to the bathroom alone."

Newt frowns harder. "Why?"

"One of mankind's most unanswered questions," Frypan replies, bringing his half-empty mug of coffee to his lips.

"Newt doesn't need to know anything about girls," Minho says. Newt's head snaps down to glare at him, not sure if it's out of confusion or strange insult, but Minho isn't looking at him to see.

"Why wouldn't I need to know anything about girls?"

"Because Thomas is a boy," Minho replies, looking up, expression smug.

Newt's mouth drops open.

How did he. . .

"Aww," Frypan coos, "you like Thomas?"

"What! No— I don't—"

Minho's chuckle cuts him off. He feels like his eyes are going to bug out of his head. He prays for the floor to open there and then and swallow him whole.

"Hey, Newt," Teresa says, rounding the table to sit on the chair opposite him. He's too shocked to move out of the way and let Brenda sit down. "Woah, you okay?"

"I just broke the news to Newt that he loves Thomas," Minho says, nonchalantly. Newt almost chokes on his own spit.

Teresa eyes widen, "Jesus, Minho. Do you have no dignity?"

"Nope, but I do have _eyes_ , and any dumb-shank can see that this Greenie is head over heels for—"

"Minho," Teresa growls, flashing Newt an apologetic smile. "Ignore him. He's just shitty because his precious running kit shrunk in the wash."

This time, it's Minho who growls. "I am not 'shitty'! And it's not my fault it shrunk."

"Of course not, Minho," Teresa replies blandly, rolling her eyes.

"At least I'm not pining over Thomas," Minho grumbles.

"Drop it, Minho," Brenda snaps, and it's then that Newt remembers she's standing beside him. "He's also bitching because Thomas won't go running with him."

"No, _I_ don't want to go running with Thomas," Minho corrects, jabbing his finger into his chest when he says 'I'.

"Why don’t you want to go running with Thomas?"

Teresa answers, "Newt, Thomas is sick."

Newt’s eyes widen, "W-what? Is he okay?"

"Is anyone with flu _ever_ okay?" Frypan replies.

"He has the flu?"

Teresa nods. "Sick as a dog. He’s been in bed all week."

"He’s been sick all week? And no one told me?"

"Newt, he was sick most of last weekend. He didn’t tell any of us," Teresa explains, he voice unnaturally soft, "I only found out because I went over last night and found him passed out on his bathroom floor."

"Oh my God," Newt rubs a hand over his face. He feels nauseous himself, his stomach swooping and rolling. He’s being ridiculous, he tells himself. "Have you all seen him?"

"I did," Minho replies, "and I’m surprised I haven’t had nightmares."

"Shucking hell, Minho," Teresa sighs, so exasperated she sounds like she’s weighed down with it, "Don’t be so dramatic! He’s not that bad."

Minho looks at her like she’s grown a second head.

Teresa ignores him, looking back to Newt, "He’s fine, just a bit sick."

Newt wants to snap that the flu is not 'just a bit sick', and that he knows Thomas is going to be practically too weak to take care of himself for the next two weeks, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he nods and jabs his thumb over his shoulder, backing away as he say, "I should go. I have a shift."

And then he’s ducking into the stockroom behind the counter and letting out a breath so long and heavy he feels like his lungs are nothing but deflated balloon skins. He gets changed, ignores the glare from Alby (which has warmed since he started the job) and starts his shift.

He can’t focus. Through out the entire four hours he’s there, he’s thinking about Thomas. His mind conjures up images of the sick teen, collapsed in heaps around his apartment, alone and sick and cold and weak. His stomach is in constant knots, his hands tingling with nerves. He wants to do nothing more than run out the coffee hut and get to Thomas’ apartment, to wrap him in blankets and feed him medicine and cuddle him until he’s better.

He doesn’t do that. He sells coffee, cuts cakes slices and smiles when customers leave tips. He watches the clock tick down slowly, every slow jerk of the arm ticking down like a pound on his chest. It ticks in time with his heartbeat, sounding like gunshots throughout the small cafe.

At last, Newt's shift ends in time for his evening lecture class. He whips his apron off the moment the clock strikes six, flying out back to change his top and snatch his sachem off the crate he left it on. He darts out of the cafe without so much as a good bye to Alby before he's striding through the campus back to his dorm.

He's completely blanked his evening class, mind entirely focused on how he's going to get to Thomas. In the dorm, empty of Minho as usual, he sees the older boys keys on the bedside cabinet and scoops them up. He leaves Minho a note telling him he's borrowed his car to go see Thomas.

He hasn't driven since senior year. Getting behind the wheel throws him almost as much as rolling off the curb jars his entire body like a bag of bones. He feels sick the entire drive, going as slow as legally possible, ignoring the knots twisting in his gut at the thought of seeing. He swallows down the feelings of regret and fear. Thomas won’t be mad he’s coming uninvited, Thomas isn’t like that.

The voice telling him sounds as confident as he feels.

Newt has never driven through New York, and he’s decided he’s never doing it again. It’s mayhem. A whirlwind of horns and panicked slams on the breaks, the whole car whiplashing his skinny frame. He’s never been more happy to be on a sidewalk until he climbs out of the vehicle outside of Thomas’ apartment building. It’s just after six when Newt gets there, having almost taken him a whole hour to get through the small section of Manhattan and to Queens. The street that holds Thomas’ building is empty, despite being surrounded by a busy city. The sun is gone, the sky blanketed by a deep blue canvas, the clouds hiding the stars.

It occurs to Newt then, that if Thomas is sick and in bed, how is he going to let Newt in? As he walks up the traitorous stair case after stair case to the top floor, he wonders if Thomas has a spare key left out somewhere.

He finds it under the doormat, and makes a mental note to tell Thomas that is the _worst_ place to hide a spare key, especially in New York. If Newt could find it, everyone else can.

Just as he is sliding the key into the lock, he's hit with a punch of panic so hard his head spins. He shouldn't do this. He shouldn't be turning up, in surprise and uninvited, when Thomas is sick and probably not in the mood. The key sits static in he lock, his hands raised in a pathetic surrender, his heart rabbiting like a jackhammer.

 _This is stupid_ , he tells himself. _You're being stupid. Just go in. Thomas won't be mad._

He turns the key like a knee-jerk reaction. It unlocks with a gun-shot bang, echoing around him like a siren. He slides it open with a metallic shriek, the door heavy and stiff.

He spots Thomas instantly, curled up on the couch in a cocoon of blankets and comforters. All that is visible is a nest of messy brown hair poking out the top.

Newt steps inside, once again swarmed with the feeling that he's intruding.

 _This is a mistake_ , his head screams. _This is a mistake. This is a mistake. This is a_ —

The lump on the sofa moves and Thomas' face becomes visible from behind the wrap of blankets. Newt almost flinches at the sight: his unhealthily white skin, sunken purple eyes, cracked lips and flushed cheeks. Minho was right: Thomas looks like something out of a nightmare.

Huge eyes blink at him, and Newt flashes him a sheepish, nervous smile.

"Newt?" Thomas rasps, and Newt winces at the harsh scratch of his voice. "What. . . What are you doing here?"

Every reason why Newt came flies out of his brain like birds fleeing after a bang. He can't remember why he's there, he can't remember what he's doing.

"Uh. . ."

"Are you okay?" Thomas ask, frowning. He moves to sit up, limbs shaking from the small exertion.

"Yeah," Newt answers, feeling stupid. Thomas is the one who's ill, it shouldn't be _him_ asking Newt if _he_ is okay. He closes the door with a loud screech, cheeks flushing when he see’s Thomas flinch at the loud noise. He moves closer to the couch, feeling out-of-place. "I came to see how you are."

Thomas' face softens. "Oh."

"Teresa told me you're sick," Newt says awkwardly. His mouth is so dry. He tries to swallow but it’s like swallowing around a lump of ash in his throat. "I wanted. . . I wanted to make sure you're okay."

"I'm okay," Thomas croaks, flashing him a weak smile. "Just a little sick."

"You look a lot more than 'a little sick'," Newt replies, eyeing the washed out pallor of his skin and the craters around his eyes.

"I'm fine," Thomas says, or at least, that's what Newt thinks he says, as the words come out in a garble coughing fit, his entire body shaking like a rack of bones from the impact each cough shakes through him. Newts heart skips, panic swelling in his stomach like a ball. He crouches down, snatching the half empty glass off the coffee table and waits until the hacks have subsided enough to offer Thomas the glass. He takes it gratefully, but his hand is shaking so much, wrists practically limp, so Newt doesn't let go. Their hands touch, but Thomas seems to focused on drinking and not choking to notice. His skin is cold, damp and clammy. Newt resists the urge to run his fingers through the unruly strands of his hair that droop onto his forehead in wet, dark curls.

"Thanks," Thomas croaks, his voice sounding like nails raking down a chalkboard. He sags back into the pillows, melting like butter on a warm plate.

Newt watches him, the way his body sags boneless and his tired eyes droop closed and open slowly. Newt swallows thickly, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs to stop himself from fidgeting.

"Can I get you anything?" Newt asks.

Thomas’ eyes open slowly. He’s silent for a long moment.

"I don’t want you to get sick," Thomas murmurs.

"I’ll be fine," Newt automatically promises. He can’t promise that, but now he’s here he feels like he can’t leave. "Have you eaten?"

Thomas shakes his head. "Every time I have, its just come straight back up."

Newt nods. "Feed a cold, starve a flu," he recites. It’s something his mother always told him.

Thomas smiles weakly. "I’m probably just going to try and sleep it off. You don’t need to stay if you don’t want."

Newt can’t stop himself from wondering if this is Thomas’ kind way of telling him to piss off.

"I can’t leave now," he says, words tumbling from his mouth before he has the control to stop them. "If I leave now and they find you choked on your own vomit or your fever is so high you have a heart attack, I will be the first they suspect in your death. No one is going to hire a lawyer with a police record."

He can’t believe he said that. He’s moments away from taking it all back, scrambling for apologies, when Thomas chuckles breathlessly.

"Jesus," he wheezes, cheeks tinting pink. "Well, I can’t blame you for that. You gonna be my nurse now?"

Newt blinks, struggling to hide the smile tugging at his lips. "Yes, Tommy. I’ll be your nurse."

"Fabulous," Thomas grin. "Be a doll and grab me some more water, please?"

Newt barks a laugh, taking his bag off his shoulder and setting it down before grabbing the empty glass. He ruffles Thomas’ hair as he heads into the kitchen, smiling when he hears Thomas squawk at the mess he makes of his already unruly mop of hair.

 

Turns out, looking after sick people is not fun. Newt decides this obvious finding when he finds himself crouching on the bathroom floor for the second time that evening, rubbing Thomas’ back as he gags and heaves into the toilet bowl.

Thomas hasn’t eaten anything since Newt arrived, and probably long before that too, yet his stomach still tortures him through the process of vomiting up stomach acid and bile. Newt winces when Thomas lets out a choked cry, echoing in his small bathroom. The florescent light above makes Thomas’ skin look deathly white, almost a waxy yellow. He’s glistening with sweat, clothes damp with it, and Newt can feel the fever through his t-shirt where he’s rubbing his fingers in circles over a knob of Thomas’ spine.

"Fuck," Thomas mutters when he’s done. His voice is hoarse, raspy and ruined. He doesn’t lift his head from the toilet, speaking into the blow, "I hate being sick."

Newt sympathises. Being sick always makes him feel childish, a pathetic need to be weak and soppy. He’s embarrassing when he’s sick, a crying, shivering mess.

"I know it probably doesn’t sound very appetising right now, especially with your face over a toilet of bile, but are you sure you don’t want something to eat?"

Thomas groans pitifully at his idea. "No. God, no. I don’t— I can’t—"

"Okay. Okay, sorry. Shit, sorry," Newt apologises, feeling Thomas tremble and shake under his hand.

Thomas groans again, moving away from the toilet and leaning back against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest.

He looks worse than when Newt came over, white washed, cheeks fever-flushed and eyes so sunken and small.

"This sucks."

"Agreed," Newt murmurs. "Hey, do you mind if we check your temperature? We need to make sure it doesn’t get too high."

Thomas nods, closing his eyes. Newt figures the cool bathroom wall must feel nice on his burning skin, despite the cold shivers wracking his body. Newt scrambles up to grab the thermometer he saw the first time they came into the bathroom, crouching down beside Thomas again.

 **102 F.** Newt tells himself not to worry. Temperatures above 100 is normal when someone has a fever. If it gets above 104, then he should start worrying.

"You’re not freaking out, does that mean I’m going to live?" Thomas asks, blinking blearily at him.

Newt smiles, tempted to run his fingers through the sweaty mop of hair on his bed. "102. You’re going to live."

"Dang. Looks like your nursing duties aren’t over."

"What a shame," Newt teases. It feels nice, weird and strange, but nice to be having this casual, easy talk with Thomas. It’s never been this humorous, this teasing. Are they flirting? Newt has only ever had one relationship, and that was with George, and Newt can’t even remember how they got together. They just were, and there was no flirting or 'banter'. This is all new. _Everything_ with Thomas has been new.

When Newt comes back to himself, he see’s that Thomas has got his eyes closed, head leaned back against the wall. Newt wonders for a moment if the younger teen has fallen asleep, but then his eyes blink open slowly, weighed down with fatigue.

And then he’s throwing himself over the bowl and heaving another mouthful of bile.

 

Thomas sleeps on the bathroom floor the first night. Newt grabs the blankets and pillows off the couch and makes them both some makeshift beds in the tiny bathroom of Thomas’ apartment. Thomas’ frequent bounds of vomit (it’s still just bile and spit) have prevented them from going back to the couch, and Newt gives up trying to convince him to just do it in a bucket. The bathroom floor is cool too, so he figures it’s probably pretty soothing for Thomas’ flush skin.

It pains Newt to listen to Thomas when he heaves and gags into the toilet bowl, tears running down his cheeks. He can’t comfort him in the way he wants to, in the way he _know_ Thomas would be able to comfort him. It’s frustrating, and it makes Newt feel like he’s useless. He hates feeling useless, invisible. Its another helpless feeling that sits like a heavy stone in his stomach.

He does what he can. He gives Thomas water regularly, lays down with him on the floor so he sleeps, and talks to him when the younger teen complains that he can’t. Newt strokes his hair when he finally nods off in the early hours of the morning, only to jerk awake some short time later to bend over the toilet bowl and start the painful cycle again.

Part of Newt wants to make Thomas eat something just so he has something to throw up, but he knows that’s cruel.

The next morning, Newt is bone tired. They’re still in the bathroom, but Thomas sleeps for a clear three hours before he wakes up, and for the first time, he doesn’t leap over the toilet. He blinks blearily up at Newt, eyes sad and heavy.

"I’m sorry," he rasps, merely a croak. "That wasn’t fun."

Newt smiles, "No, I guess it wasn’t."

He gets Thomas into the living room after the teen is confident he isn’t going to hurl. Newt doesn’t think Thomas has any bile or spit left to get out, so he considers them safe for the time being. Thomas drinks some more water before he collapses on the couch in a tired heap and promptly passes out. Newt wraps him in blankets, supports his head with cushions and runs to grab the thermometer again.

It beeps **102.8 F.**

 _Going up,_ Newt thinks. _That’s not good._

He goes to the kitchen to grab a flannel and puts it under the cold tap. He wrings it out, so its not dripping and heads back over to the sleeping teen. He places it on Thomas’ forehead, where the skin is hot and already damp with jewels of sweat. Thomas sighs, relaxing further into the couch, and Newt feels the knots in his stomach loosen for a moment.

 _Not too useless after all_ , he tells himself.

He stares at Thomas, at his flushed cheeks and sunken eyes, wondering how someone can look so rough yet so soft at the same time. he stands up and collapses on to the arm chair opposite the couch, legs sprawled out. He’s exhausted having spent pretty much all night making sure Thomas didn’t choke on his vomit or fall asleep with his head in the toilet. Thankfully, it’s Saturday, so he has no classes to get to or shifts to attend at the coffee house. Newt closes his eyes with a sigh, sinking further into the comfortable couch cushions.

 

When he opens his eyes, it’s getting dark out, and Newt realises he’s slept all day. Instantly, his eyes are drawn in front of him and finds Thomas on the couch, eyes closed and in the exact same position he was in when Newt closed his eyes.

Newt climbs to his feet, back popping from sleeping in a uncomfortable slumped position. He crouches down in front of Thomas, seeing the flush in his cheeks are ruby red as before and when he touches the cloth on his forehead, it’s barely damp and now warm. He’s breathing easy and even, slow with sleep, so Newt doesn’t worry too much. He wants to be surprised that Thomas is still asleep, but after the night he had and the flu coursing through him, he’s not actually surprised that he’s wiped out.

Newt’s own stomach grumbles, and it’s then he realises that he’s hungry.

Standing up and taking the cloth with him, Newt heads into Thomas’ attached kitchen to seek something to eat. As expected, the fridge and cupboards are almost empty of food. Newt has always got the impression Thomas doesn’t eat much, either due to distraction or being busy, and having been sick for the past couple of days, the teen hasn’t been shopping and restocked his shelves.

He finds some cans of chicken noodle soup and decides that it will probably be a good idea to get Thomas to eat something too.

He gets a saucepan out of the cupboard and pours two cans in.

"Do you want some help?"

Newt spins around so fast he almost knocks the saucepan off the cooker. Thomas is standing on the other side of the kitchen island, swaying dangerously.

Newt hadn’t even heard him wake up.

"No, it’s fine," he says, stepping away from the oven. "You should—"

The words are taken out of his mouth when Thomas sways too far to the left, his pale face washing out even more colour as his legs give out, folding like decking-chair legs. Newt is around the island fast enough to catch him before he drops completely to the floor, and despite Thomas weighing next to nothing, Newt still stumbles at the sudden weight and quickly lowers them both to the floor.

"Christ, Tommy," Newt curses, coming out like a cry. Thomas’ eyes flutter open, scrunching closed a second later.

He lets out a groan, "Fuck. M’head hurts."

"Would’a hurt a lot more if I hadn’t caught you," Newt says.

A smile tugs weakly at the corner of Thomas’ lips, his half-lidded eyes closing. "Good thing you did. Thanks, by the way. Good reflexes, very fast."

Newt huffs a laugh, feeling oddly teary now the moment of fright has passed. "Scared the bloody life out of me."

"Sorry," Thomas says. "Felt so lightheaded."

"Do you want some aspirin?"

Thomas looks like he contemplates this for a moment. "Only if you let me take them on an empty stomach."

"No," Newt replies instantly. "You need food, and liquids."

"Don’t make me," Thomas whines, shutting his eyes and shaking his head slowly, "Don’t wanna throw up again."

"I’m sorry, Tommy," Newt runs his fingers through the younger boys damp hair, still slick with sweat. "How do you feel about showering too?"

"Probably not a good idea," Thomas grimaces. "I don't think I can stand up for that long."

Newt chews on this, resisting the urge to offer to help Thomas in the shower. They aren't there yet, and Thomas is far too coherent to remember it.  
"Okay," Newt says slowly. He swallows. "How about we get you up into bed? You’d be comfier there then on the couch."

Thomas takes a long time to reply. "Yeah. . . I think that is a good idea."

Newt nods, "Okay. Lets get you up then."

Despite Thomas’ small frame, he’s surprisingly hard to juggle when trying to stand. Newt supports most of him, holding him around the waist and his arm around his shoulder as they wobble and stumble towards the stairs. Newt looks up at them dauntingly as Thomas eagerly grabs the rail for extra support, groaning where they stop.

"Come on," Newt urges gently, tightening his grip around the slim waist. "The sooner we get up, the sooner you can go to sleep."

"'M gonna fall," Thomas mumbles, not moving. His grip is so tight on the banister that his knuckles are white.

"No you’re not," Newt replies confidently, "I’m not going to let you. I got you, Tommy. I promise."

It’s a promise Newt manages to keep. It takes sometime, and a few closer calls where Newt had to force Thomas to stop, the teen being so physically weak from the flu rattling through him that he became dangerously breathless and dizzy. Eventually, they made it up without an accident or a fall, and Newt quickly guided Thomas to his bed. The sick teen dived under the blankets and comforters weakly, slumping bonelessly with a eased and relieved sigh.

Newt tucks the blankets around him, making sure he’s in and covered.

"I was making some soup," he explains softly, and Thomas blinks his eyes open to look at him. "Chicken noodle. I think you should eat something. Better for you to eat something and for it to come back up."

Thomas replies after a beat of silence. "Sounds smart, but I don’t wanna throw up again."

"I know," Newt says, nodding and giving into the urge to run his hand through Thomas’ hair. It’s matted to his forehead, and despite the days sweat and grime in it, its still soft. Newt can’t figure out how that’s possible. "You should eat something though, Tommy. You haven’t eaten in days, and it’s making you feel worse. You’re body needs nutrients."

"What if it all comes back up?" Thomas sounds so vulnerable and sad, almost child-like, and Newt is practically _melting_ from it.

"Then I’m an ass for making you eat it, and you can use that against me for as long as you want."

Thomas grins, chuckling weakly. Newt’s heart speeds up, breath hitching because that is the most beautiful sound he has heard in days.

"I’m gonna go finish making it," Newt says, standing up. "Shout if you need anything."

Thomas hums in reply, eyes closing as Newt turns away and heads back down to the small kitchen.

It takes only a few minutes to heat the soup and split it into two bowls. He also grabs himself a cup of coffee and Thomas a glass of fresh, cool water before heading back up to the bedroom.

Thomas’ eyes are closed, but his breathing is too fast to be sleeping.

Newt rounds to the other side of the bed, turning the bedside lamp on and setting the tray down. Thomas’ eyes blink open slowly as Newt settles on the bed, picking up Thomas’ bowl.

"I can’t tell if that smells good or horrible," he mutters.

Newt snorts, "Probably both. Come on, or I’ll feed you like a toddler."

"Do it. I’m too weak," he whines, pitiful and pathetic.

Newt snorts again, rolling his eyes and dipping the spoon in the bowl of soup.

Thomas eats half before he grimaces and shakes his head, muttering, "No more."

Newt nods, happy with that. "You did good, Tommy."

Thomas hums, closing his eyes and settling into the pillows again. He’s turned so he’s facing Newt, cocooned and buried in blankets. Newt places Thomas’ bowl back on the tray, about to grab his own when a hand, cold but clammy, touches his elbow.

He looks down to find Thomas’ wide eyes staring up at him.

"Lay with me," he whispers quietly, soft and vulnerable.

Newt blinks. "Sure. Yes. Okay, uh— let me just. . ."

He stands up, pulling back the duvet and blankets to climb in. He lays so Thomas can curl into his side, and the sick teenager does exactly that as soon as Newt is settled. He lets out a sigh, eyes closing.

"Thank you, Newt," Thomas murmurs, sounding on the brink of sleep as soon as his head is resting beside Newt’s arm. Newt quickly moves his arm, linking around Thomas’ head and pulling him in closer, thinking it will make it more comfortable. Thomas is asleep before Newt has even retrieved his soup.

He eats slowly, making sure his movements don’t wake or disturb Thomas. He spares frequent glances down at the teen, taking in his fever-taken features. He downs his coffee quickly after, the instant shot of caffeine buzzing him the moment it touches the back of his mouth.

He has a shift at the coffee hut the following morning, so Newt sends Alby a warning message to say he wasn’t going to make it and that he’s come down with some 'flu symptoms'. Alby’s reply is short and evidently pissy, but Newt couldn’t give two flying monkeys. There is no way he is going to leave Thomas alone in this state, and there is no way he could possibly force himself out the door even if he wanted to.

After an hour, Newt is bored. He eyes a book on the bedside cabinet, scooping it up and reading the title with interest. _The Great Gatsby_. Newt grins, a easy classic. He isn’t surprised that Thomas has the book, no more is he surprised that the book is well read, pages and cover scuffed with use.

He opens the first page, hand idly running through Thomas’ hair as he reads.

He’s half way through the beaten-up paperback when Thomas shifts, making sounds in his sleep. Newt looks down, chest swelling at the sight of Thomas curled into him like a child, warm body a solid feeling against him.

Newt doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how he’s going to go on like this: attached to Thomas like he needs him to breathe but doesn’t know how to actually breathe in. He wants to go further with Thomas, to tell him how he feels and how much it scares him. But he doesn’t even know if Thomas likes him _back_. Is Thomas just being friendly? Is he slowly letting Newt down? Newt doesn’t know, and he can’t work out if he _wants_ to know. Thomas hasn’t made anything obvious, he hasn’t done anything with Newt that he can’t imagine him doing with anyone else.

Newt looks down at Thomas, at his sleeping, flu-ridden form, and wonders if he wants them to ever be more. Does he want to have Thomas this way? To have to open up to him even more, to show him his every side and moment? Newt doesn’t know if he’s ready to be that vulnerable again, or if he ever will be.

He runs his fingers through Thomas’ hair, the locks floppy on his forehead. What if Thomas isn’t ready? What if Newt is building all of this up to find that Thomas feels nothing for Newt, no desire to make what they have anything else? Newt isn’t ready for that kind of emotional slap. He doesn’t think he could handle the realisation that everything he feels isn’t returned.

But what _does_ he feel? What does he feel for Thomas?

He traces Thomas’ moles with the tip of his finger, feather-light touches ghosting over his flush skin. He touches his cheekbones, prominent and perfect. He stares at his eyelashes, dark and long. His bow lips, his eyebrows, his turned-up nose.

He kisses the younger teens forehead, the skin warm and damp under his lips, and pulls him in further. Thomas goes easy, curling up eagerly in his sleep.

He goes back to reading, but he isn’t sure he’s processing the words.

 

Thomas’ fever breaks the next night. The vomiting stops the same morning and he manages to keep down some toast and apple sticks before passing out again on the couch.

Newt spends the next three days helping Thomas, who is still weak and groggy on his feet. He has to leave for classes, but manages to mangle out of his shifts at the coffee hut. After a while Alby tells him to stay away until he’s sure that he’s not contagious, so Newt is easily off the hook. He makes sure, when he’s there, that Thomas eats between naps. He sits outside the bathroom when the sick teen showers incase he falls, and reads books and books off his bookshelves while he sleeps and doesn’t have the heart to leave.

Two nights after the fever broke and the flu symptoms have began to dwindle down to fatigue and overall weakness, Thomas and Newt find themselves in the living room, Thomas laying on the couch, dozing under a blanket, while Newt reads _To Kill A Mockingbird_. Newt’s eyes periodically flick up from the paper pages to the sleeping form on the couch, checking he’s okay.

This time, Thomas’ eyes are open.

"Hey," Newt says, slipping a make-shift bookmark in the book before closing it and placing it on the coffee table.

Thomas smiles dopily. "Hi. You’re still here."

"I’m here still," Newt replies, sitting forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "How you feeling?"

"Tired, which is annoying since all I’m doing is sleeping," Thomas chuckles, and Newt chuckles too, because Thomas looks so much better than he did a few days ago. His skin is still pale, but it’s not flushed and glistening with fever sweats. He’s not shaking or shivering anymore, and he managed to keep a bowl of chicken noodle soup down the day before.

He looks exhausted and frail, but it’s a vast improvement.

"I can’t believe you saw me like that," Thomas whines, rubbing a hand down his face. "That must have been completely mortifying."

Newt chuckles. "I’ve seen worse."

"Oh yeah? Like what."

Newt doesn’t need to remember the moment: "Sonya got the flu a few years ago. She spent the whole time crying, snot and drool and tears. _She_ was a mess."

Thomas laughs whole-heartedly. "I could have fucking cried. My _God_ , I have never felt worse."

Newt chews his lip. "Do you think you could eat something? You haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, so you’re probably hungry."

"Yeah," Thomas nods. "But I don’t have any food."

Newt grins, "I went shopping."

Thomas’ eyes look like they’re going to bug out of his head.

"You. . . y-you went shopping?"

Newt nods. "While you were sleeping yesterday. You have literally _no_ food in the kitchen."

"Shit. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping."

Newt scoffs, "I noticed! Your fridge and cupboard are empty. What the bloody hell do you eat?"

"I normally grab something when I’m out," Thomas shrugs. "I normally have cereal or something here too, but I must have finished it."

"Cereal?" Newt shakes his head. "Jesus. No wonder you’re so thin, how the hell do you run so well?"

Thomas laughs again. "I have no idea. And hey— you’re thin too! You’re smaller than me!"

Newt rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Speaking to Thomas like this, this easy sway of conversation and teasing is new to Newt, but he likes it. "I’m thin by build," he says. "You’re thin because you don’t bloody eat! Now, how do you like your eggs?"

They eat on the fire escape. Thomas hoovers down half of his eggs and toast like a starving man, but slows down on the second half and Newt knows he’s given himself stomach ache. Non the less, he eats it all and slumps back against the railings as he puts the empty plate down. In the sunlight shining over Queens, Thomas still looks pale and gaunt, but a damn sight better than he did 24 hours before when he was passed out or vomiting his own stomach lining.

The morning is cold, the air bitter and biting, but it’s also clear. Not a cloud lines the sky, not a breath of wind breezes through the streets. Thomas is wrapped up in a over-sized blue sweater, with has holes and tears in the sleeves, and a pair of blue and green checkered pyjama pants with the ankles tucked into his large socks. He looks cute and cosy, and Newt wants to wrap him in a blanket and cuddle him until they both fall asleep.

"I love winter mornings," Thomas murmurs. He has his eyes closed, the sunlight shining on them making his skin seem pearly white. His throat ripples as he swallows and Newt’s eyes watch every moment as his Adam’s apple rolls under his skin. He shivers suddenly, small and subtle, but Newt notices.

"You cold?"

Tommy opens his eyes. "A little, but what’s new?"

"Come on," Newt gets up and extends a hand, "We should go inside. You’re still sick, the cold won’t help."

Thomas rolls his eyes. "Fine, _mother_."

 

Inside isn’t much warmer. Newt is beginning to realise the problems with living in an industrial converted loft during the winter months: it’s damn cold. They curl up on the couch, Thomas wrapping himself in a wooly blanket and burrowing down into it like a burrito. Newt laughs at him, and Thomas grin cutely.

"It’s so bloody cold in here."

"Tell me about it. Nothing I can do though, that’s why there’s so many blankets."

Newt chuckles and looks around. He stands up, heading towards the shelves in the walls and looking at the CD’s. Thomas’s CD collection, like his book collection, is one of a kind. It’s the collection an old man would possess, with genre’s other teenagers don’t listen to.

"You’re music collection is amazing," Newt says, looking at the spines of the old vinyl records by the player. "What’s your favourite?"

"Track or record?"

"Both."

Thomas doesn’t move for a moment, but suddenly he flies up, tossing the blanket in a heap on the end of the couch as he makes his way over. He’s smiling as he crouches down and pulls out a small 7" record. Flicking on the player, he places it on and lays the needle on the spinning disc.

 _Rockin’ Robin_ by Bobby Day begins to play and Newt closes his eyes.

"Really?"

"Don’t even argue. This is the best song ever."

When he opens his eyes, Thomas is grinning so wide his face is almost split. He begins to click his fingers to the beat, shoulders moving with them. Smile not faltering, he begins to sings the words.

_He rocks in the treetops all day long_

_Hoppin' and a-boppin' and singing his song_

_All the little birds on Jaybird Street_

_Love to hear the robin go tweet-tweet-tweet_

Newt shakes his head but he can’t help but laugh as Thomas begins to sway, head rocking as he dances like a man in a 1970’s movie.

"You have to dance to this," Thomas argues, grinning like a mischievous child. "Come on. Come _on_."

He reaches out and before Newt can protest, he’s being grabbed by the wrist and yanked forward. Thomas dances with them, swaying and singing to the lyrics, laughing at Newt’s bad moves.

"You’re really not that bad."

"Don’t lie to me."

"You’re better when you’re drunk."

Newt rolls his eyes but begins to have fun moving to the song. He too, like it’s contagious, begins to murmur and hum the lyrics.

"Wait," Thomas says, pulling away. He takes the record off the player and gets another out. A moment later, a new song blasts out. "This entire record is gold."

"My mother loves The Smiths."

"Everyone loves The Smiths," Thomas replies, and begins bellowing the lyrics to _William, It Was Really Nothing_. He takes Newt by the hand again and they spin, Thomas leading them as they dance and sway on the large industrial loft floor, their socked feet sliding on the cold concrete. Newt finds it easy to lose himself, to feel a weightlessness that is becoming a familiar feeling around Tommy.

Later, when the song has finished, they find themselves sitting in front of Thomas’s record collection, picking out the best ones, weighing classics against each other and playing their favourites.

"My mother loved old things," Thomas explains as _Love My Way_ by the Psychedelic Furs plays. "She hated the world was developing, didn’t like the way simplicity was being cut out. We didn’t have a TV, we had a radio in the kitchen and that was it. Her technology stretched as far as record players and radio sets."

"Wow. I. . . I have to respect that. To survive in the 20th century without an ounce of technology? How did you guys do everything?"

"The old fashioned way. I mean, we had a phone but it was bolted to the wall and had a cord."

"I actually would have loved to live like that."

"I like modern things too. I like modern music, and phones and all that jazz. But, sometimes I wish the world hadn’t change so much. Everything develops so fast I feel like I’m being left behind."

Newt hums in agreement. He's always felt a sense of boldness in the world, and not in a good way. He's always felt out of place, out of time. His mother always says he's been born in the wrong decade, and the more he grows up the more Newt realises she's right.

They're in the middle of discussing whether the original version of Rockin' Robin is better than the version by Micheal Jackson, when Thomas's phone _pings_ with an alert of a new message. It's sitting where it has for the last three days: on the table by the couch on charge.

Thomas climbs to his feet and checks it.

"Is it Teresa?"

"No, my boss."

"Jorge?"

"No no. Boss from tattoo parlour, Vince. He's just texting to see how I'm doing."

"Oh, I'm guessing he knows you've been sick?"

"Yeah, considering I was meant to be working this week," Thomas replies, taping away at the screen.

An idea sparks in Newt's head, and the next moment it's rolling off his tongue.

"Why don't we go and see him?"

Thomas looks up. "Now?"

"Yeah. Unless you don't feel well--"

"I feel fine," Newt is beginning to learn that Thomas's 'fine' actually translates _well-enough-to-stand-but-not-much-else_. "I just didn't know if you'd want to come."

Newt frowns at that. "What do you mean?"

"I can't imagine you in a tattoo parlour, Newt. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable like that so I was gonna go later."

"Oh," Newt's shoulders slump a bit. "If you want to go now, I'm happy to come."

Thomas looks at him for a moment. "Promise you're okay with it?"

"I promise."

"Pinky?"

Newt scoffs. "Are you 12?"

But Thomas is already in front of him, his slender pinky finger extended out to him. He's smiling but he looks serious. "Pinky promise?"

"Bloody hell," Newt chuckles, but none the less, links his smallest finger with Tommy's.

The younger, sicker teen grins from ear to ear. "Do you want a change of clothes?"

Since Newt has been staying at Thomas's for days on end, he's been wearing the clothes and the spares he bought with him. He looks down at his jeans and sweater.

"No," he replies. "I'll be fine. Plus, I don't think your stuff with fit me."

"I have baggy clothes."

Newt laughs. "I know. Is that because you lost weight and haven't bought new ones, or because you like wearing clothes two sizes too big?"

"Both. Baggy clothes are comfortable."

"You should wear clothes that fit," Newt tells him. "Stop hiding yourself. You told me that."

Thomas smiles, ducking his head. A moment later, he looks up with a dusting of ruby red blush on his cheeks. "Come on then. Grab your shoes and we'll go."

"You're going like that?"

Thomas looks down at himself and shrugs. "I'm ill."

Newt shakes his head, laughing. "Unbelievable that you don't actually look that bad."

Thomas grins, sliding on a pair of trainers. "Minho's car or subway?"

"I don't want to drive through New York again, and I don't think you should be driving in your condition, so subway it is."

"I can drive. Subways are going to be packed this time of day."

"So are the roads?"

"The roads are always packed," Thomas scoops up the keys were they were tossed and left on the kitchen side. He looks back at Newt as he slides the door open, "Plus, we can take the back roads. It's more quiet."

Trusting Thomas's instinct, Newt followed him and got in the passenger seat. He still didn't trust Thomas was fit to drive, but he was pretty sure he would shake himself out of his skin and bones if he tried to drive through the chaos of New York City again. Plus, he doesn't know where the hell the tattoo parlour is.

Thomas drives for almost fifteen minutes, but Newt suspects it wouldn’t take that long on a normal day, as he drives slower than he has done any other time Newt has been in the car with him.

When they pull up onto a side of a street, Thomas looks washed out, skin paler than it had been before they left the loft.

"Are you okay?" Newt has to ask.

Thomas nods, closing his eyes. Neither of them move.

"Yeah," he croaks. "Still feeling shit."

"You’re still looking shit. Come on, the sooner we go in the sooner we can get you home to bed."

The street looks like any other New York City street. The road is mayhem, the sidewalk is busy, the buildings stand and tower tall on either side of the road.

"This way."

They walk half a block before Thomas grabs Newt’s hand and guides him down a T road. Newt has been in New York City many times since he started at Haven’s College, but still, every time he steps foot in it it’s like he’s visiting for the first time all over again. It shakes him, it scares him, but it also exhilarates him. New York does something to a person to make them feel infinite.

Newt doesn’t spot the tattoo parlour until they’re standing right in front of it. It looks small from the outside, with red painted walls, the door open and in the window, a large neon light-up sign that reads _TATTOOS_.

"This is it?"

"Doesn’t look like much," Thomas says, looking at Newt from the side. "But it’s like home."

Thomas strides forward, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jumper. Newt realises then he should have made Thomas wear a coat to protect him from the harsh winter day. Inside is dimly lit, the walls covered in drawings and designs, a section with various large, book-like pages with more drawings on them. At the very front there is a large desk, beside it a pair of western-like gates that lead into the room behind where three leather chairs and more tables sit. At the far end, there is a back door that leads into another room.

"Where is…?" Newt starts, but cuts himself off when a stocky, short blonde haired man comes through the back door. Dressed in all black and has the fleeting features of Brad Pitt, the man goes straight to the first table without even noticing Thomas and Newt at the door.

"Hey, Vince," Thomas rasps, voice sounding like nails on boards.

The man stands straight, head snapping towards them. His face splits in a grin and he throws his hands up as he says, "Thomas! Tommo! Kiddo, how are you? You look like shit."

Thomas barks a laugh, walking through the gates and meeting Vince in for a hug. Newt stands at the door, watching with his hands sweating. Vince’s hug envelops Thomas like a giant hugging a small child. When they pull apart, Vince holds Tommy by the shoulders and looks at him.

"Fuck, you look like you’ve been put through a wringer. Should you be out?"

"I’m not a psych patient, Vince," Thomas laughs, "I am allowed out of my own loft."

"Well you look like you’re about to keel over, so sit down before you fall down, kid."

Vince pushes Thomas into one of the plush, black leather recliners. And then finally, his eyes find Newt.

"You must be the famous Newt," he says, smiling as he approaches him. He holds out a hand, "Nice to finally meet you. Come on, come in. We don’t bite."

Newt lets out a relived breath he didn’t realise he was holding as he pushes through the black gates and shakes Vince’s large hand.

"Uh, yeah. I’m Newt. How do you—?"

"Tommo has talked of you," Vince interrupts, looking back at Thomas, who’s cheeks are blushed bright pink. "Do you guys want something to drink? Water, coffee?"

"Coffee for both, please," Thomas answers. He’s slumped in the chair, looking pale but grinning. "Thanks, Vince."

Vince disappears into the back, and Thomas holds his hand up for Newt. Reluctantly, with his heart pounding with anticipation, Newt takes Thomas’s hand and allows himself to be pulled towards the chair. His hand is cold and clammy against Newt’s, but it holds on tight. Newt doesn’t know whether to look at their hands or at Tommy’s face.

"You… uh, mentioned me to Vince?"

Thomas’s face flushes again and he looks down at his lap. "Yeah. But it’s not a big deal."

Newt tries to _not_ feel like the statement literally ploughed through him. He doesn’t get a chance to reply, though, as a moment later Vince is coming in with three mugs on a small tray.

"Hope you like it black. I didn’t know how much sugar you like, Newt, so I brought some out. Here you are, Tommo, your sugar with a dash of coffee."

Thomas rolls his eyes and takes the mug handed to him. "Shuck off."

"Don’t swear at me in Glader slang you ;ot have made up," Vince scolds with no heat. "Here you are, Newt. Sugar?"

"Yes please."

"So, Newt, Vince starts, leaning against one of the tables, "You been taking care of Tommo?"

"You sound like a dad, Vince," Thomas murmurs. "You’ll scare him off."

"Hush, Tommo. The adults are talking."

Thomas gasps in mock-offence, clapping his chest dramatically.

"I’ve been staying with him for a few days," Newt explains. "Someone had to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit."

Thomas scrunches up his nose. "Delightful. Thanks."

Vince is laughing. "You both look beat. I’m guessing sick-pants over here has been keeping you up all night?"

If possible, Thomas’s already flushed complexion washes even darker. He looks up at Newt shyly, as if waiting in nervous anticipation for his answer.

"It hasn’t been too bad, no worse than having a deadline for an assignment, I guess. I could have slept if I wanted to."

Vince nods, looking between the two of them. Thomas, oblivious as he sips his coffee, is slumped in the chair like he’s melted into the leather.

"Do you want to sit down?" Vince asks. "I noticed your limp. Do you want a chair?"

"Oh no," Newt shakes his head. "I’m fine standing, really."

"How’d you get it? If you mind me asking. A limp like that isn’t from a twisted ankle."

"I broke it when I was younger," Newt replies. He doesn’t look, but he can see Thomas looking at him, probably feeling the same swelling panic Newt is feeling. Thomas knows the truth, and out of the college group, he is the _only_ one who knows the truth.

"Must have been a bad break," Vince muses. "I remember when Thomas dislocated his knee last year. Kid was in crutches, couldn’t believe how long it took you to get back on your feet."

Newt frowns. "I didn’t know you dislocated your knee."

Thomas shrugs one shoulder. "It wasn’t anything major. My ankle rolled when I was running with Minho and I fell awkwardly."

Thomas and Vince talk for a while and Newt takes the chance to observe what he assumes must be the only father figure in Thomas’s life. Vince speaks and cares for Thomas both like a friend and as a dad, teasing and lighthearted but also serious and rooted. And Thomas appears completely at ease in the tattoo parlour, slumped in the chair, a smile on his face and a spark in his tired eyes that hasn’t been there for a while.

When they’re leaving later that day, Vince grabs Newt by the hand again and as he shakes it, he murmurs, "Take care of him."

Newt flushes but eventually nods. Vince wraps an arm around his shoulder and leads him to the door where Thomas is waiting.

"You must come back sometime, Newt," Vince tells him, his enormous form towering. "Maybe Thomas can give you a tattoo!"

"Oh, no, no no—"

"Newt doesn’t like needles, Vince," Thomas adds. "And don’t give him the impression that everyone who comes in is stabbed with a needle!"

Vince barks a laugh that echoes like thunder. "Seriously, Newt, don’t be a stranger. You’re welcome whenever you want."

"Okay, _dad_ , we’ll be going now," Thomas scoffs, and Vince clips him on the back of the head.

Outside, the sun has set between the buildings and the sky is a blanket of soft orange. The air is colder, instantly chilling Newt’s skin and making his bones quiver.

"Damn, it’s cold," Thomas murmurs, already shivering. "Well, where do you want to go?"

"Go?" Newt frowns. "Aren’t we going back to your loft?"

"This is the first time I’ve been out in almost two weeks," Thomas replies, "we need to stay out a little longer."

Newt checks his watch. "It’s almost seven. Are you hungry?"

"A little. I know somewhere we could go if we grab some take-out."

"Sure. Where?"

Thomas grins. "You’ll see. Come on."

They get back to Minho’s car in no time, the chill settling in them driving them to walk fast. They fall into the seats, groaning from the cold. Thomas rubs his hands together and starts the car. They end up going through a drive-through to get some chips and milkshakes before Thomas is pulling back onto the busy, evening New York City streets. Thomas drives with a sense of ease the Newt could never compose in such a busy and hectic setting. He drives with control, with patience and with practice through the crowded roads and eventually pulls off a roundabout to a far quieter road.

"Where are we going?"

"You’ll see."

Newt watches the darkening city flash by as Thomas drives them further and further away from the busy streets of Manhattan.

 

Thomas bends around in the chair so he stretches his arms into the backseats. Newt watches for a moment in confusion before the younger boy is straightening back and pulling a lump of fabric into his lap.

"What are they?"

"Jumpers," Thomas beams, handing one to Newt. It’s soft and thick, a warm material. Newt slips it over his head and it falls baggy around the middle and the wrists, just as it does with Thomas.

"How long have you known they were back there?"

"I just remembered. I made Minho start keeping jumpers and blankets in the car after he started making me do evening runs with him during the winter. Comes in handy, don’t they?"

Newt shakes his head and grins. He looks out of the windshield, "Go on then. Where are we?"

"My second favourite place in the world," Thomas replies. "Come. I’ll show you."

Newt follows Thomas as they climb out. He locks the car, so the headlights fade out and leave them in total darkness. They’re far enough from the city that from the tip of the hill, they can see New York City as nothing but a colony of twinkling lights across the stretch of swaying sea. It looks so small it’s almost unreal.

"Wow," Newt murmurs.

"That’s not even the best part," Thomas says beside him. He feels a tug on his sleeve. "Come on."

He’s pulled back towards the car, and can see through adjusted eyes as Thomas climbs up on the bonnet of Minho’s Volvo and lays back.

He cranes his neck and looks at Newt, his white skin illuminated in the dimmed moon.

"Lay down then," he says, and when Newt does, he grins and adds, "Now look up."

The breath leaves Newt’s lungs. Above him, the sky is clear and the stars shine brighter than the lights of New York. The sky is a blanket of navy with throbbing white, silvery dots standing out like stamps.

"Wow," Newt repeats. "It’s so. . ."

"I know," Thomas whispers beside him. "I’ve always had a fear of going blind and not being able to see things like this."

"Is that your biggest fear?"

"Going blind? Absolutely! I freak out whenever my eyes are covered. Hate it. And rings— can’t do rings."

Newt turns his head to the side, tearing his gaze away from the stars and looks at Thomas with confusion and amusement. "Rings?"

"They make me so uncomfortable," Thomas grimaces. "I can’t even look at people putting them on without getting squeamish."

Newt laughs, barking out a bubble of joy.

"Don’t laugh! They’re real phobias!"

"Going blind I understand, but rings? It’s just a piece of jewellery."

"Oh, God," Thomas shudders beside him. "I can’t. It’s just wrong, I hate them."

"You’re ridiculous."

"Shuck off!"

They lay in silence for a while. The air is still but cold, the sky clear. Newt feels himself become mesmerised by the sight before him, and the more he looks, the more stars he can see. He feels himself relax, melting against the bonnet of the car like a puddle of ice-cream.

"Thank you for bringing me here," Newt whispers. He feels if he speaks any louder he’ll shatter the moment.

"I’ve never shared this place with anyone," Thomas replies, voice husky and hushed. "I like coming out here. It helps me think."

"It’s a good thinking spot," Newt agrees. "If this is your second favourite place, where is your first?"

"A diner in Chicago called the _Grumpy Chef_. It’s where my mother always used to take me when I was a child, we’d go there every Friday before she died. There’s something… magical about it. I don’t know. No where else competes."

Newt smiles, and it makes him think of the small house he grew up in in London, with the ivy vines crawling up the chipped and old brickwork, with the stairs leading to the white pained from door. He misses the tiny cosy kitchen, the living room with the French doors leading out to his mothers small garden with overcrowded vegetable patches and large, thriving flowerpots.

"My favourite place is in a cafe in London, in the second table in the window. That’s where I have read almost all of the books I own. They do the most amazing cheap coffee and lemon cake."

"I love lemon cake," Thomas hums. "You need to take me there one day, and I’ll take you to the _Grumpy Chef_."

Newt turns his head and looks at Thomas again, who’s face is up towards the sky and his eyes are closed against the winter night.

"I’d love to," he replies.

Tommy shifts a minute later, and then a white box is being extended towards Newt. He looks at the box of cigarettes and then at Thomas face.

"Want one?"

 

A week after Newt went over to Thomas’, he finally goes back to the college campus for a night.

He’d skipped back to his dorm room a few times in the week he’d been with Thomas to grab extra clothes, but he hadn’t seen Minho or anyone, only Teresa in classes.

He leaves Thomas on the sofa, who assures him he’s feeling much better and hasn’t stopped thanking Newt for staying and helping.

When Newt gets in, Minho sends him a smug look from where he’s sitting on his bed.

Newt rolls his eyes. "Shuck off."

Minho says nothing, but Newt can practically _feel_ Minho’s eyes on the back of his head.

The smug shank knows.

 

December disappears over night.

Newt is trying to finish a thesis for Jansons class, and has been trying for three days. He’s stressed, having drunk so much coffee he wouldn’t be surprised to find it has replaced his entire bloody system and instead he has caffeine swimming around in his veins. He sure feels like he’s buzzed, mind frazzled and nerves like live-wires.

Today was the last day of classes before the Christmas break, which only leaves 14 hours to get his thesis in the next morning by eight, and he’s not even half way through.

To say Newt is having a break down, would be an understatement.

The dorm room door opens behind him but Newt’s eyes don’t leave his computer screen, his fingers not leaving the keyboard as he tapes the keys frantically. He knows it’s Minho, so he doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder.

"Oh great," he hears Minho say. "He’s still nerd-ing out over his stupid essay."

"It’s a _thesis_ ," Newt responds automatically, still not looking away from the illuminated screen.

The lights are off, and a moment later the room is flooded with light. Newt groans, eyes clamping shut and one of his hands instinctively covering them, face so tight in a grimace.

"Minho!" He yells, spinning in his chair to face the room despite his eyes still being shut from the sting. "Turn it off!"

"No, you hermit!" Minho shouts back, "Shuck. Never have I ever met someone that’s such a fucking _try hard!"_

Newt drops his hands and glares.

Minho says something, but Newt isn’t listening. His mind is screaming too loud because _Thomas_ is here.

Newt wonders when the day will come that he is going to stop freaking out every time the teen shows up.

Today, he realises, is not that day.

Thomas and Minho are standing at the other end of the dorm room, both dressed in running clothes and hair damp.

"You look like shit, shank," Minho says, moving to the end of the bed to grab a handful of clothes from his floor.

"Shuck off," Newt grumbles, cheeks heating up against his will. He turns in his chair back to his computer screen. "I’m working."

"You’re always working," Minho replies, coming to stand over him and his desk. "Come on, shank. Shut this down. We’re all going for pizza because it’s the end of semester. You should come and _chill out_."

"No, thanks. I haven’t finished my paper."

"I thought it was a thesis?"

Newt flashes him a glare again, and Minho snickers before he’s shedding his top over his head and chucking it on the floor.

He changes while talking to Thomas, and Newt does his best to turn out and focus on his thesis.

When Minho disappears into the bathroom, Newt see’s a shadow loom in the corner of his eye and he knows Thomas is there.

He risks looking up, and finds Thomas standing at his side, looking down at his paper. His hair is damp, most likely from sweat from the running, and it’s making the chocolate brown looks look like black seaweed on his forehead. It reminds Newt of when he was ill, but he looks much better than that time: he’s still pale, but he’s got colour in his cheeks. He lost weight from the flu, making him look gangly and bony in his arms and cheeks, but he still looks well.

He meets Newt’s eyes and smiles softly, "Hi."

"Hey," Newt replies awkwardly.

"You sure you don’t want to come?" Thomas asks. "It might actually help taking a break and changing scenery."

Newt shakes his head. "No, I should just keep going. I really need to get this finished."

He wants to say yes. _Fuck,_ does he want to say yes to Thomas. He wants to go with them, to walk out with Thomas, to sit with the gang and laugh and talk before they all go home. But he _can’t._ If he goes, he won’t finish this thesis, and if he doesn’t finish the thesis then he is going to fail the first two semesters.

And that can _not_ happen.

"Okay," Thomas nods, and Newt thinks he see’s disappointment in his expression. He smiles, non the less. "You’ll be missed. Maybe Minho will bring you some back."

Newt snorts, shaking his head just as Thomas chuckles to himself.

"Yeah," the brunette boy continues. "That’s not going to happen."

"Definitely not."

Minho comes out of the bathroom a minute later, hair washed and blow-dried, styled up in his usual perfect cow-lick.

Newt turns back to his screen, but he can’t think of anything to type. 

"You missing out, Greenie," he hears Minho call a few minutes later. Newt doesn’t turn around to look at them, but he hears the exasperated sigh Minho drags out. "Such a try-hard."

"Leave him alone, Minho," Thomas says, and the blush is so bright in Newt’s cheeks he’s practically _glowing._

He can _hear_ Minho roll his eyes as the dorm room door opens.

"See ya, Greenie!" Minho shouts. "Enjoy writing your _paper!"_

Newt spins around so fast the wheels on his chair slide on the floor slightly, the word 'thesis' on the tip of his tongue when he see’s Thomas standing alone in the doorway.

He flashes Newt another smile that makes his chest feel hot and tight. "Bye, Newt."

It feels awfully like a end to something.

"Bye, Tommy."

The door closes softly behind him, and then Newt is alone once again.

 

He barely gets out 200 hundred words in half an hour. He’s run his fingers through his hair so many times it’s getting dirty from the nervous sweat on his hands. His eyes are stinging and tired, his head banging and temples pulsating.

This is stupid, he knows this. He should just go to sleep and wake up early to finish it before the deadline.

He doesn’t, of course. He keeps typing, hoping he isn’t making as many mistakes as he probably is.

He doesn’t know what the time is when the door opens, but after a quick glance at the clock as he turns around confirms that it’s only been an hour since Minho and Thomas left for pizza.

What is Minho doing home already?

He question is answered when the silhouette in the doorway steps into view. It’s smaller than Minho, skinnier and with less hair.

Newt frowns, turning on his desk lamp to light up the room.

"Tommy?"

The brunet smiles, stepping into the room and closing the door.

"Hey."

"What. . ." Newt shakes his head, blinking rapidly to make sure he isn’t imagining this. "What are you doing here?"

Thomas shrugs. "Wasn’t in the mood for pizza. Minho said you’ve been struggling with this thesis for days, figured you might want help."

Newt blinks again, stunned. Thomas stands uncomfortably in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot like a ball of congested anxiety.

Newt knows he should say something, but it’s like his tongue if stuck to the top of his mouth.

"I. . . I can go if you want," Thomas murmurs, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the closed door. He takes a step back, and it kick starts Newt like a clap.

"No!" He almost shouts, blushing vigorously. "Uh— you can. . . stay. Please. Stay."

Thomas smiles, kicking his shoes off. It’s then that Newt allows his eyes to track down Thomas: he’s wearing a pair of black sweatpants tucked into socks that make his legs look twig thin, and a over-sized track hoodie from high school. His hair is ruffled and fluffy, as if freshly washed. It’s so messy that Newt wants to run his fingers through it just to make it look worse.

He inwardly slaps himself. _What is_ wrong _with him?_

Thomas grabs Minho’s desk chair and slides it to Newt’s side, dropping down and looking at the open books and laptop screen.

"By the way, I know nothing about law."

Newt laughs, because honestly, he didn’t expect any different.

Thomas doesn’t factually help with the thesis, but his presence is enough company and motivation to make Newt bang out his thesis with flying fingers. He wants to get it finished because he wants to spend this time with Thomas, he realises. Time when they are alone and Thomas isn’t passed out or vomiting up an organ.

"Why do you study law?" Thomas asks, breaking the silence. He’s sitting cross-legged in the chair, and he’s flipping a pen in one hand between his thin, long fingers. Newt forces himself not to stare at them and instead look at Thomas’ face - not that that is much better.

"I don’t know," Newt replies. "I don’t know what I want to do, but my mum wanted me to come to college. I wanted to come too, I guess."

"So you don’t know what you want to do with your life?"

"No clue," Newt sighs, sitting back in the chair. He rubs a hand down his face. "I took my gap year because of George. But I needed to do _something_ when that year finished and college was the easiest option. Law seemed like an easy option too."

"Law is _easy?"_ Thomas laughs.

"Yeah, I realise my mistake now."

 

"I read _Birdsong_ last week," Thomas starts. It’s been hours since he came, but neither of them have moved from the desk. Thomas put the pen down at some point, and is now looking at Newt’s shelves on the other side of the room. "That book is _brutal_."

"War is brutal."

"It was beautiful, though. The book— not the war. I can see why it’s your favourite."

Newt smiles, and stops typing for a moment to spare a glance at the other teen. "You should read _All The Light We Cannot See_ by Anthony Doerr. It’s another war story."

"Have you read it?"

"A few years ago. I really loved it."

Thomas nods, humming, and Newt has a warm feeling that he’s considering what Newt said.

"Have you got the book here?"

"I do, actually, Newt gets up, legs stiff and protesting as he stands from his chair and crosses the room. He grabs the book off the shelf, passing to Thomas as he sits back down. "It’s really good. Honestly."

Thomas opens the book, flipping to the first page. After a moment, Newt turns back to his paper and silence falls.

 

Newt opens his eyes, and it takes him a moment to realise where he is.

He lifts his head, his neck protesting from the awkward angle he fell asleep him. He’s slumped against his chair, his head resting on the top of the back rest, angled backwards at a 90˚ angle. His joints click and pop as he lifts his head to a proper angle, eyes blurring as he stifles a yawn and they fill with tears.

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but what was happening before comes back to him like a slap.

He looks to his side, and see’s Thomas there, still asleep. He’s curled up in the chair, legs pulled up to his chest and resting sideways against the backrest.

Newt doesn’t get it: Thomas is small, but he’s bigger than Newt yet he can curl up like a cat in any small space, his long legs and thin arms folding in like deck chairs. Thomas sleeping is a vision of innocence and sweetness, his face free from frown lines and hard edges, all soft and relaxed. He wonders how someone can look utterly adorable and content when sleeping, when he knows he drools and snorts in his sleep.

He looks up at his black laptop screen, and after tapping the mouse, the screen illuminates a harsh white that momentarily stings his eyes. He blinks, adjusting to the light after a few moments, and realises he feel asleep before he finished.

Snatching his phone off the desk top, he see’s that the time is **6:24 AM**. He has one hours and 36 minutes before his paper needs to be on Jansons desk.

He reads over his notes one last time, and is proven once again that the power of sleep has given his brain a new found motivation. He begins typing as the words pour, tapping the keys - this time more quietly, as he doesn’t want to wake Thomas, who is still recovering from the flu and the exhaustion that brought - frantically to get it all out before the deadline comes.

He finishes his paper at **7:13**. He uses the spell check and grammar check on the software to erase all of his mistakes (there are unsurprisingly a lot), which takes him to **7:22**. He presses the print button and looks to the sleeping teen beside him. Thomas hasn’t moved, and Newt finds himself tracing the curves of his cheekbones and the trail of moles across his jaw and throat.

He doesn’t know long he stares for, but when the printer beeps to signal it’s finished, he’s thrown into a dilemma.

He needs to hand his paper into Janson by hand, which means he either leaves Thomas here as he does it and hope Thomas will be here when he gets back, or he wakes Thomas and uses the time it takes for them to walk there and back to have more alone time with the teen.

He chooses the latter.

He shakes Thomas’ shoulder lightly, and the teen stirs almost instantly. He blinks rapidly, his long, dark eyelashes fluttering and sweeping over his cheekbones.

Newt decides he needs to stop staring at Thomas all the time.

Thomas takes a moment to wake himself up, and then when his eyes meet Newt’s, he smiles sleepily.

"Hey."

Newt swallows. "Hi."

Thomas looks around, eyebrows pinching slightly in a frown. "Shit," he curses. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep."

"It’s fine." _You look adorable when you sleep._

"I was supposed to help you say away," Thomas pouts, "Not fall asleep on you."

" _That_ was what you were helping with?" Newt teases.

The younger teen chuckles. "Fine. I didn’t come to help. I came because I didn’t want pizza and I wanted to keep you company."

"Well, you achieved that," Newt smiles, "Thank you. Honestly, it was really nice having someone here."

 _It was nice having_ you _here_.

"Have you finished?"

Newt blinks, and see’s that Thomas is leaning forward, eyes flicking between the screen and Newt.

"Oh, uh— yeah," Newt stammers, swallowing thickly. "I woke a while ago."

"Shit," Thomas says again, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry for still sleeping."

"It’s fine. You were obviously tired," Newt replies.

"Yeah," Thomas agrees groggily, stretching and unfolding his legs. "That flu knocked me on my ass. I’ve been so tired lately it’s ridiculous."

_You don’t look ridiculous._

"It’s understandable," Newt says as he stands, going to his printer and getting his thesis. "The flu is harsh. You were really sick."

"I can’t believe you still saw me like that," Thomas says, looking at him over his shoulder. From the angle where Newt is crouched on the floor, his hair looks so unruly and messy it _should_ look stupid, except it’s Thomas, so of course it doesn’t. "Thank you, again. For staying."

Newt smiles - he can’t stop himself. "It was no problem. You have a great music collection."

Thomas laughs, and Newt’s chest tightens like a cork-screw.

"Will you. . ." Newt trails off and scrambles for confidence. "Will you come with me to drop off my thesis?"

"Of course," Thomas replies instantly.

Shucking on some shoes and Newt grabbing his jacket, the pair set out at **7:38**.

"Any plans for Christmas?" Thomas asks.

Newt burrows down into his coat collar, shivering from the early morning chill. "Home. See my mum and Sonya."

"Sonya is your sister?"

Newt nods. "Yeah. She’s insufferable, but I love her."

"Family is family," Thomas replies. "You excited to be going home?"

"Very. Christmas is a big thing my home," Newt pauses, "I miss my family. Being away from them. . . it’s strange."

"I can imagine."

Newt looks at him. "Can you?"

". . . No," Thomas is staring at his feet as they walk, "I can’t. I’ve never. . . I grew up in other peoples homes. When my father was there, I avoided home. When he was gone, my mother was ill and I was with Teresa. I’m used to it, I guess."

"Plus, Teresa is here with you," Newt adds.

Thomas nods. "She helps. A lot."

Inside the lecture room, Janson sits at his desk. Thomas waits outside as Newt goes in to hand it to him.

"Nine minutes to spare," Janson says, taking the wad of paper and smiling at him. "Thank you, Mr Newton. Have a good Christmas break."

"You too," Newt replies as he walks back out.

Thomas is leaning on the wall, a cigarette now between his fingers. He’s looking around, and doesn’t look at Newt as he steps out onto the side walk.

"It’s so quiet," Thomas says. "It’s weird."

"Everyones gone home. I don’t blame them," Newt replies, looking around.

Thomas is right: it is weird seeing the campus so empty. Normally, even at this early hour, there are students shuffling along, zombie-mode in seek for coffee. Theres normally stragglers running around, leaping over plant pots to race around the slow-walkers to get the library for some last minute work. The cafes are normally over-flowing, shop fronts open.

Now, its like a deserted abandoned city. Everything is shut, the blinds are pulled closed. The sidewalks are empty, silent.

It’s almost eery.

"Apart from Janson, we could be the only people here," Thomas muses.

Newt shakes his head. "Nah. Those librarians never leave. I’m pretty sure they sleep in the book-overflow in one of the backroom."

Thomas throws his head back and laughs, his whole body shaking with it. He takes a drag of his cigarette when he’s done, nodding.

"You’re probably right."

Newt looks at his feet for a minute, unsure of what to do now. He hates that he’s still so nervous around Thomas, still so unsure of what he should do. Thomas has done nothing to make Newt feel this way, but Newt is just so terrified of ruining what they have, of making a fool of himself or making the wrong footing that he shatters everything they have built.

"I. . . uh. . . I need to go back to my dorm and pack. My train l-leaves at 11. Will you. . . do you want to come back to the dorm or. . ."

Thomas breaths out a inhale of smoke through his nose, and Newt knows he should not find that _that_ hot.

"Sure," Thomas agrees. "I can give you a lift to the station too. Minho left me the Volvo, said I could drop it off at his when I’m done. It’ll save you paying for a cab, too."

Newt nods, smiling. "Thank you. Really, thank you."

_Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for helping me. Thank you for being you._

_Thank you for everything._

Thomas smiles at him, sweet and so soft, and Newt feels like someone has reached into his chest and squeezed his heart.

"Come on," Thomas says, pushing off the wall. "Don’t want to miss your train."

They head back to the dorm room. Once inside, Newt grabs his suitcase from under his bed and lays it on top of the sheets. Thomas doses on Minho’s bed, idly reading more of _All The Light We Cannot See_ as Newt stuffs and folds his clothes into the bag.

There’s a part of Newt that doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay, he wants everyone back and to continue as if nothing is changing. He knows it will be the same next semester, when Christmas is over and college starts again. But Newt doesn’t want this break, he doesn’t want to go home and not see everyone for three weeks.

He doesn’t want to not see _Thomas_ for three weeks.

As he zips up his suitcase, he wishes for time to stop. He has changed so much yet so little since the beginning of joining Glades College. He’s more confident, yet more nervous. He sleeps better, yet he sleeps worse. He can’t describe it, he can’t work it out. He’s been here for four months, and he has grown so much. He’s made friends, he’s done new things, he’s faced fears.

So, why does he feel like going home is going to ruin it all?

"You ready?" Thomas asks.

Newt is shaken out of his thoughts, he nods, stuffing his books into his messenger bag.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "I think I’m ready."

Thomas smiles at him kindly. "Come on then."

 

It’s a long drive to the station, despite Thomas’ fast driving. Music plays on the radio, Thomas having changed the stereo so it didn’t play Minho’s grime rap CD’s but instead, they listened to radio commentators and the occasional song. Newt looked out the window as the city flashed by, taking it all in.

 _This is stupid,_ he tells himself. _It’s three weeks. I’ll be back here in three weeks._

For some awful reason, everything that is happening feels like a goodbye.

When he tears his eyes away from the window, they find themselves on Thomas. His side profile, his unkempt hair, his bony wrists and long fingers clasped around the wheel. He’s holding it with one hand, lazily turning the wheel when needed, the other resting on the doorframe.

As if he knows he’s being looked at, Thomas briefly glances at Newt before looking back at the road.

"What are you looking at?" He smiles.

Newt’s mouth goes dry. _You,_ he thinks. _Your perfect hair. Your soft jaw. Your slender neck. Your moles. Your long eyelashes. Your wrists and hands that look so delicate yet so strong._

"Nothing."

Thomas hums disbelievingly, and the smile doesn’t fall from his face.

When they get to the station, Newt doesn’t want to get out of the car. Even Thomas hesitates, staring up at the building with his big brown eyes like a child.

"How long until your train?" Thomas asks, once again being the one to break the reigning silence over them.

Newt looks at the car clock, watching the hands in the tiny dashboard analog clock ticking down and down and down. Seconds are wasted as he watches them.

"20 minutes," he replies, voice quiet.

"Do you need to buy a ticket?"

Newt shakes his head. "Already booked. Just got to pick it up."

"We should go then."

Newt nods, but neither of them move. He has a feeling Thomas is as reluctant to see him go as Newt is. He hopes, at least, that that is why Thomas hasn’t moved from the drivers seat.

Another few minutes pass, time ticking down, before Thomas is ripping the keys out of the ignition and opening the door with one fluid swing. "Come on," he says, climbing out.

Newt follows slower, shutting the car door the same time that Thomas pulls his bags out of the trunk.

They pick up his ticket and head towards the platform. Thomas carrying his rucksack and Newt wheeling his suitcase. When they bounce down the steps, there’s only 10 minutes till the train comes and departs. The thought makes Newt feel like he’s being punched in the gut. It physically _hurt_ to think he has less than 10 minutes with Thomas, and then he has to go three weeks without seeing him.

And yet, Newt can choke a word out. They stand in silence, side by side on the train platform, waiting for it to come. He wants to say something, _anything_ , but he doesn’t know what. Thomas makes him speechless, and he doesn’t know if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

The clock ticks down.

"I’m gonna miss you, y’know," Thomas starts. He has seven minutes till the train. "I know it’s only three weeks, but I’m really going to miss you."

"I. . . I’m going to miss you too," Newt replies quietly. "I’m really going to miss you."

Thomas smiles, and Newt thinks it looks kind of sad.

Staring at him, Newt tries to find flaws. He tries to find something to give him a reason to not love him so much, but there is nothing to find. His face is flawless, everything proportional and gorgeous. In the bright, winter light, his skin looks porcelain white, ivory and milky. His eyes look huge, so big that they should look too big for his face, but they don’t. His lips, bow-shaped and pink, tease Newt harmlessly.

"I’m really, really going to miss you," Newt finds himself saying. "Thank you, Tommy. Bloody hell. Thank you for everything."

Thomas breaths a laugh. "You’re welcome, Newt. I don’t know what I did, but you’re welcome."

"You saved me, Tommy," he murmurs. "You saved me from myself."

Thomas smiles. "You were already saving yourself, Newt. I was just proving to you that you could do it."

Newt doesn’t know what comes over him in that moment. He feels like everything around them has stopped, life moving in slow motion. Everything is out of focus, everything except Thomas. Newt only see’s him, and then he’s kissing him.

It happens slow, hesitant. He takes a step forward, waiting for Thomas to back up and tell him he’s got the wrong idea. But when Thomas doesn’t move, when he watches him with those kind, familiar eyes that flick down to his lips, Newt feels a spark of need and desperation, panic that this is his only chance to do it. He connects their lips, kissing him slow. He waits, and waits, and waits for Thomas to pull away, but instead, he pulls him in.

The kiss is unsurprisingly slow, sweet and tender. A shiver runs down Newt’s spine when Thomas deepens it. He can taste the lingering nicotine on Thomas’ tongue, sharp and prominent. He feels the cold tips of Thomas’ fingers through his t-shirt as his hands slip underneath the lips of Newt’s coat, resting on his hips. Newt cups Thomas’ face, pulling him in as much as he can, desperate to make the moment last as long as possible.

He hears the sound of the train arriving behind them, but he doesn’t pull away yet. He clings to Thomas, kissing until their breathless.

After a minute, Newt pulls away, separating them. Thomas’ eyes are wide and huge, their faces so close together Newt can feel the younger teens hot breaths on his face.

"I’m sorry," he whispers, scared to speak louder.

Thomas frowns, a soft pinch in his eyebrows. His lips are red, open a fraction. His hands are still on Newt’s hips, warm and grounding. He looks like he wants to say something, to pull Newt back in.

"Newt. . ."

"I’m sorry," he repeats, and then he’s turning, out of Thomas’ reach and leaping onto the train.

The final whistle blows, and Newt turns his back on the windows as the doors shut and the train pulls away.

 

When Newt arrives home, he is greeted by his mother, Sonya, aunt Grace and his grandmother. His aunt has never married or had kids, and his grandfather died when Newt was young, so their close family circle is small around the dinner table.

His phone has missed calls and texts from Thomas, all going ignored as he puts his phone on silent and tucks it into his bag. He leaves his bags in his bedroom, but it doesn’t help. He can’t stop thinking about his phone, about Thomas, about their _kiss._

Him and Thomas kissed, and then he ran away.

Newt feels the fist punch through his chest at the thought. _What has he done?_ How could he do that to Thomas? Sweet, kind, innocent and damaged Thomas. He’s hurt him, Newt realises. He’s hurt Thomas, but worst of all, he broke his promise: he let himself fall in love. He let him see every side of Newt, let Thomas _in_ , and now Newt is paying the price.

He shouldn’t have let it get this far. He shouldn’t have allowed Thomas to climb into his heart like this. He shouldn’t have let himself get this tied up with someone, not after what has already happened. Newt should have learnt his lesson, he should have kept his guard up. Why did he have to let them down? Why did he have to open himself up?

His chest feels tight and hot the entire time he sits at the dining table the first night home. He can’t settle, he shifts like a ADHD child on a sugar high. The chair legs practically rattle on the kitchen floor as he vibrates and moves in the chair, unable to get comfy. He sees his mother and Sonya flashing him concerned glances, but a simple smile fools them away.

Or so he thinks.

It late on the first night, when he’s getting ready for bed that Sonya barges in.

"Hey—" he starts, but Sonya’s simple finger to her lips silences him. She shuts the door behind her softly, already dressed in pyjama wear.

"Don’t be so loud. Mum and grandma are sleeping," she says.

Newt frowns. "You’re the one who’s—"

"Fucking hell, just shut up a minute, Newt," she practically snarls.

Newt blinks, stunned and taken back. Sonya storms forward, sitting on the edge of his bed and stares at the floor for a long moment.

She lifts her head, and Newt can see the harshness in her expression, the tick in her jaw. She looks angry.

"What’s wrong with you?" She asks.

"Nothing."

Sonya rolls her eyes. "Don’t lie to me, Newt. I’m your sister, I _know_ when something is wrong."

"Sonya, nothing is wrong," he snaps, turning his back before he loses his temper.

He can feel her eyes on the back of his head, gaze so strong and hot they burn holes into his skull.

"Newt," her voice is suddenly soft, as if she’s coddling a scared, hurt child. "I. . . you can tell me."

"It’s nothing, Sonya," he replies, his voice tired and worn down.He hangs his head between his shoulders, chin practically touching his chest. "I’m just tired. It’s been a long semester, and I didn’t sleep on the train. I’ll be fine tomorrow, don’t worry about me."

It’s a cruel request, but he knows Sonya won’t push - at least not yet.

After a few minutes of silence, he hears her mutter a quiet "Okay", before the sound of the bed springs groan and he sees her shadow pass him out the door.

When it closes, he finally cries.

 

He made a promise to himself that he wasn’t going to think about it on Christmas Day. It’s another promise he breaks. He knows he’s being quiet, he knows he’s being mellow, but he can’t shift the feelings that thrum through him. He can’t stop thinking about his phone, now dead of battery in his bag, and the messages Thomas has left him.

Was Thomas angry? Was he annoyed? Was he texting to say he regrets the kiss? Newt doesn’t know, and he feels sick with the thoughts. He doesn’t know how to enjoy the day when all he can think about is that stupid, kind, sweet, smart Tommy back in NYC, enjoying his day in the small house with Monica and Teresa. He can imagine them in the morning, by the tree, coffees in hand and wrapping paper on the floor. He can imagine them in the afternoon, Monica in the kitchen, Thomas helping her and Teresa standing in the doorway, dishing banter and witty comments. He can imagine them in the evening, sitting around the dinner and sharing laughs like the close family they are. And finally, he can imagine them after, in the living room, curtains pulled and warm lights glowing, the TV on and Thomas swaddled in blankets on the sofa, lounging as they watch a Christmas movie.

He thinks about it more than he engages with his own family activities. He’s silent during breakfast, so inward in his head that he barely registers anything spoken to him. He forces his smiles and gratitudes when they exchange presents, not really taking in what he’s given. He’s too distracted, too ruined and God, he feels _pathetic_. Why can’t he let it go? Why can’t he stop _thinking about it?_

He feels better in the evening. Surprisingly, when they settle down for some Christmas programmes like they used to England, the living room glowing with the flames of the fire, Newt feels finally like he can ignore the horrible questions and voices in his head.

Instead, he feels sad. It’s not an angry sad, or the frustration and torment he felt earlier, but instead, he feels like he _misses_ Thomas. He misses his touch, his voice, his words. He misses his laugh, and how his whole body shakes when he does.

He has never missed anyone like he misses Thomas in that moment. His whole body craves it, like he craves nicotine when he’s stressed. He feels foolish and struck, nostalgic and deprived.

Yet, he doesn’t charge his phone. He can’t face that yet.

 

He goes for a walk early Boxing Day morning. He’s up and out as the sun is rising, frost dusting the grass like glistening crystals. His shoes slide on the slippery sidewalks, but the roads around his home are quiet and empty at this time in the morning, so he walks in the road to avoid slipping on his ass. The fresh, cool air makes Newt feel more refreshed and human, like he can properly breath oxygen into his lungs. He doesn’t think while he walks. Just moves one foot after another.

 

When he gets back, Sonya corners him in the kitchen. She’s already up, dressed in her pyjamas, hair messy and tied back. She has a mug of coffee in her hands, and her eyes find Newt as soon as he walks into the room.

"Okay, brother," she starts, sitting down at the table beside him. "Talk to me."

"There’s nothing to talk about."

"Y’know, you’re a shit liar," Sonya says. "I know something is wrong. Something is bothering you, and I am giving you one last chance to tell me."

"It’s nothing," he lies.

_Its not nothing._

_It’s huge._

"Then it won’t be a big deal when you tell me," she retorts, and when Newt gives her an exasperated glare, she shrugs nonchalantly.

Newt sighs. He doesn’t know where to start. How can he verbally explain how much he has screwed up everything with Thomas before it really even started?

"You shouldn’t keep pushing people away, Newt," she says, sighing like she’s sad.

Newt doesn’t look up as he replies, "I’m not."

"But you _are!"_ Sonya practically explodes. "You’re pushing Thomas away because you’re afraid what happened with George is going to happen again."

"That’s. . . that’s not true."

"It is and you know it," Sonya says, and when she speaks next, her voice has lost it’s harshness. "Newt, bad things don’t happen to people twice."

"That's because people learn from their mistakes," Newt replies heatedly. Why can’t she understand?

"You're not learning," she says. "You're running."

 

_You’re not learning, you’re running._

Is that true? Newt wonders. Is he just running from what happened? Thomas is nothing like George, but that doesn’t mean he won’t hurt Newt. Everyone has the potential to be bad, some people are just more revealing than others. Newt knows this. Newt promised himself he’d live by this. He broke this promise, and now he thinks he’s broken himself. Thomas has never compared to George, he has never done anything similar, not in anyway shape or formed. George shattered him like a child handling china, he crushed him like a animal cradling a butterfly, and yet, Newt no longer thinks he has _learnt_ from what happened. He runs from the demons that hide in the shadows, but he doesn’t face them. He doesn’t fight the nightmares, he shies away from them and pretends to be okay.

Maybe Newt isn’t as good at pretending as he had hoped. Maybe pretending isn’t good enough anymore.

_You’re not learning._

No, he realises, he is not. He hasn’t learnt from what happened, because hasn’t learnt that it was George who hurt him, not himself. He hasn’t learnt that it was _George_ who shattered him that night, not everything else. He hasn’t learnt that it was George who broke him, and that it’s been his family and friends and _Thomas_ who have been trying to put him back together.

Newt hasn’t learnt that it is not him that is bad, or his feelings or his desires, it was simply George and his intentions. What happened to Newt wasn’t his fault, but now he realises that it will be his fault if he lets it control everything he feels.

_You’re not learning._

_I have now._

 

Christmas break disappears in a deep breath and suddenly, Newt is hugging his family goodbye and climbing on the train to head back to Manhattan. He charged his phone Boxing Day, and opened the black screen to find seven missed calls and five unread messages, all from Thomas.

_newt, what just happened?_

_are you angry?_

_i’m sorry. if you regret it, that’s okay. but please talk to me._

_did you get to boston safely? please text me when you get there, just so i know you’re alright._

_merry christmas, newt._

Thomas hasn’t called since the day after Newt left. His last text was Christmas Day. He didn’t leave a voicemail after his calls, and Newt is kind of glad. He doesn’t think he could have bared listening to Thomas’ voice, not after what he did.

The train journey feels longer than ever before. He tried calling Thomas Boxing Day, but the call went straight to voicemail, as if Thomas’ own phone is off. He left him a small text Boxing morning, pathetic and short.

_I’m okay. I’m in Boston now. I’m sorry for running away, it wasn’t your fault. Call me back, and Merry Christmas, Tommy._

It’s a pathetic excuse for a truce, but it was only a start.

Thomas hasn’t replied, and despite Newt sending more messages and calling again, he has had no response.

He knows now, that Thomas is mad. He was hurt by what Newt did, and now he is ignoring him as Newt did to him. He hates Newt, their friendship fried. The kiss meant nothing, their relationship, whatever it had been, is gone and drained away.

Newt feels the absence before he’s even in the city.

 

He’s never felt more grateful to see Minho until the day he walks back into they dorm room.

The Asian is by his desk, dressed in a pair of baggy running shorts and a light tee, as if he isn’t feeling the cold, winter weather of New York. He looks up when Newt walks in, eyebrows jerking up for a moment as if he’s surprised to see him.

"Hey," Newt says lamely.

Minho takes a beat to reply. "Hi. What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" Newt asks, heart racing. "This is still my dorm room, right?"

"Well, yeah, but. . ." Minho shakes his head, frown lines deep in his tanned forehead. "I meant why are you here _now_?"

"Where else would I be? Classes start in a few days. . ."

"I know," Minho murmurs. "I just. . . I figured you’d be with Thomas."

"Why would you think that?"

_What has Thomas told him?_

Minho opens his mouth, but closes it silently a minute later. He looks surprisingly lost and uncomfortable.

It’s then that Newt realises he looks tired.

"Have you spoken to Thomas?"

Newt shakes his head. "I didn’t look at my phone till Boxing Day. I’ve tried, but. . ."

"He didn’t tell you then?" Minho asks.

Newt’s heart drops to his stomach. "Tell me what?"

Minho lets out a breath that oozes fear and ominousity. Newt’s heart is beating, blood roaring in his ears so loud he barely hears his reply.

"Thomas and Teresa were in a car crash just before Christmas."

Newt feels the blood drain out of his face. He feels lightheaded. "They. . . are they. . ."

Minho shakes his head, seeming to understand the question Newt can’t choke out. "Roughed up, but alright. Teresa is still in hospital. She woke up yesterday, but hit her head and had swelling on the brain or something. I don’t know the medical side of it, but she had been asleep since the crash."

"Oh, my God," Newt breaths, and suddenly his legs are so weak they threaten to fold like soggy cardboard. He practically drops down on his bed, heart hammering. "Thomas. . ."

"Busted ribs, concussion. Nothing he can’t deal with," Minho says. "Tough as boots, that one. Teresa too."

Newt nods, but he doesn’t register it.

Thomas was— Thomas _is_ hurt, and all the while Newt has been stuck in his own pity party in another part of the country, ignoring him because he was too selfish to work out his feelings.

"He told me about the day at the station," Minho says, and for once, his voice is soft. It sounds strange and foreign. "He. . . he didn’t tell me much, but I know what happened."

"It was my fault," Newt mumbles, struck with shock and shame. "I pulled him in and pushed him away."

"Yes. Yes you did," Minho replies. Newt looks up when he see’s Minho sit down directly in front of him on his own bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He looks directly at Newt, eyes hard. "You fucked up, Newt. You swooped in here and Thomas was gone on you the first day. Shuck knows why, but my God, I have never seen him so lost for someone until he met you. Thomas has always been fragile, he’s always had a breakable side and somehow, meeting someone just as broken has helped him. You hurt him when you left, but we all know that you didn’t mean to. You’re a stupid shank, but you’re not cruel. You ran away because you were afraid, right?"

Newt is surprised when he nods.

"I don’t know what you were afraid of, but I’m not stupid either. I know someone hurt you, Newt. I know something bad happened to you before you came here, and you ran away from Thomas because of it."

Newt’s mouth goes dry. _How does Minho know?_

"How. . ."

"Thomas didn’t tell me, but I’m not blind, Newt. I’m your roommate, you’re friend. You’re not as discrete as you think. I know about the nightmares, and the panic attacks. I’ve heard you at night, waking up and going into the bathroom to wheeze and gasp for twenty minutes."

"Why didn’t you say anything?"

"Because if you wanted me to know, you would have told me," Minho replies. "I’m an asshole, but I’m not emotionally stunned. I help but stepping back. You told Thomas because you wanted him to know, and that’s fine. I’m not mad you haven’t told me, but don’t make me sound like a blind dick by being surprised I noticed."

"I. . ." Newt feels numb. "Okay. Sorry."

Minho sighs. "Look, shank, I don’t want you to apologise to me. I don’t even want you to apologise to Thomas. He isn’t mad, I promise. He told me what happened because he was scared he did something wrong."

"He didn’t," Newt rushes to admit, "He didn’t. He. . . I—"

"I know," Minho interrupts. "But Thomas is like you. He thinks too much and worries himself sick. You guys are constantly dancing around each other in fear on stepping on each others toes that you won’t get close enough to realise you’re both feeling the same thing."

Newt barely processes Minho’s words. "He likes me?"

"Shucking hell," Minho sighs, tone dripping with exasperation as he rubs his face. "You’re the most oblivious shank I have ever met. Thomas doesn’t speak with his words, he speaks with his actions. Learn to shucking read them."

 _Learn to read them?_ Newt thinks. He can barely even understand his own actions, let alone someone else’s. But then, as if Minho saying it was like someone hitting him with a billboard sign, he begins to see what Minho means.

The night they met. The kindness when he fell on the run. The ski trip and their time alone on top of the mountain. The scars, the history they both try to hide. The afternoons and evenings spent setting up the bar, contained in their own secret hide out. The comfort he gave Newt after panic attacks. The smiles, the blushes, the expressions in his eyes. It all made sense.

How could he be so stupid? So blind? Thomas kissed him _back._ Thomas looked shattered when Newt turned and ran from him on that platform, as if Newt had reached into his chest and physically ripped his heart out.

How could he have spent all this time not _seeing_ the way Thomas felt, reading the messages behind his words and his actions.

All this time he has wasted, and it could be too late.

"Minho. . ." Newt starts, but he doesn’t know what to say. He wants to scream, cry and vomit all at once.

Minho actually smiles, soft and sincere. He knows Newt understands now, as if he watched all of Newt’s thoughts play out— he probably did, Newt has never been one for being able to hide how he feels.

"I know, shank. Makes sense now though, doesn’t it?"

Newt nods, throat dry.

"It’s alright. It’s not too late."

His head snaps up from where he’d began staring at a knot in the wooden floor. He didn’t realise he was crying until he felt a tear escape his eye. "What?"

"I told you, Thomas isn’t mad. You can make this right."

"How?" His voice cracks horribly. Another tear rolls and drops off his chin.

"You know how. Do what you’ve been afraid of doing all year."

The answer goes unsaid, yet it’s so, so clear.

_Tell him. Speak to him._

"I didn’t realise you were so philosophic," Newt mumbles weakly, swiping the tears from his cheeks. He feels both tired and refreshed at the same time. Light and heavy, weighed and weightless.

Minho rolls his eyes. "Get out, shank. Go have a make-up kiss with Thomas."

Newt smiles shyly and gets up towards the door. He opens it, but turns back as he stands in the threshold.

"Thank you, Minho."

"You’re welcome," the older boy replies, flashing Newt a genuine, rare, friendly smile. And then, he adds, "Greenie."

 

Newt practically runs the whole way there. He runs to the bus stop, to the El train, down the sidewalks, to the next bus stop. He has no idea where he’s going, only that he needs to get to the address Minho texted him after he left and he realised he had no actual clue _where_ Thomas is.

He heads towards lower Manhattan, sprinting so fast he’s sure his feet aren’t actually touching the ground. He dodges side-walkers, bumping into people with murmured apologies. He doesn’t stop. He can’t. He could be too late.

He’s a mess when he gets to the entrance. His mind is a mess, his thoughts scattered once again. He’s panting, legs shaking and steps unsteady.

He asks for Teresa at the desk, and after some questions, the lady gives him a floor and a room number.

As he stands in the elevator, he can feel his pulse in his ears, his hands, his stomach.

_This is it. This is it. This is it._

The doors slide open, and Newt feels his heart leap into his throat.

He walks slowly, slower than he has all day. He finds the room in no time, looking in through the small window in the door.

Teresa is on the bed, skin white and dark hair horribly contrasting. She has purple bruising along one side of her face, stitches in her forehead. Newt see’s bandages disappearing under the blankets and gown she wears, and he feels a punch of grief. She looks awful, but Minho said she’s woken up, that she’s okay.

His eyes find Thomas, who sits on the chair beside her bed, so close he’s practically sitting on the mattress with her. His eyes are open, staring at the figure one the bed.

Newt knocks once, his knuckles clicking against the glass before he opens the door slowly.

Thomas’ head lifts and he looks to the door, expression not changing until he recognises who it is.

"Newt?" He whispers, almost so quiet the older boy barely catches it. His eyes look huge as they’re framed by harsh purple bruises, half moons under his eyes like sunken craters. He looks exhausted, but instantly his face lights up at the sight of Newt in the doorway.

Newt wants to run. He wants to run so badly, but he can’t decide if he wants to run away or straight into Thomas’ arms.

As Thomas stands, slow and hesitant, Newt catches the grimace of pain that swipes across his expression. He notices then, the small patch of stitching on his hairline, the stiffness in his posture and the slight curl in his shoulders. He draws in a ragged breath when he’s standing, gripping the handle of the chair so tightly his knuckles are as white as the hospital walls.

Newt feels a stark of panic and rushes forward, but Thomas keeps walking until they’re stumbling out the door into the hallway.

"Christ, Tommy," he blurts, "Sit down before you fall down."

"I’m fine," Thomas rasps, his voice raw and hoarse. He looks as shit as he sounds, but then he’s smiling, reaching out to grab the hand Newt has laid on his shoulders to push him into the chair. "You’re. . . you’re here."

"I’m here," Newt whispers, voice wet and wavering. "I. . . Tommy, I am so sorry. _Fuck._ I am so, _so_ sorry. I can’t. . . I don’t know—"

"Newt—"

"No," Newt interrupts quickly, but his voice is so soft it holds no heat. He looks into Thomas’ eyes, his big, brown eyes that have their own unique shade that fascinate and frustrate Newt to no end, because no ones eyes should be so _fucking distracting._ "I. . . I need to say this. I need to tell you, Thomas. I need to tell you I fucked up. I’m fucked up. I can’t let go of what happened with George, and it’s controlling everything I do. Its controlled everything with you, and my own stupid obliviousness. I didn’t see. . . I didn’t know what I was doing and I was so scared of hurting myself that I hurt you."

"You didn’t hurt me."

"Don’t lie to me. After everything we’ve been through, together and before, don’t lie to me to protect me. Don’t pretend this isn’t my fault. Don’t pretend I didn’t ruin everything we had—"

"You haven’t ruined anything, Newt," Thomas says, and his eyes scream so much pain it makes Newt doubt the words. "Newt, you. . . you have every reason to be scared and untrusting."

"Stop making excuses for me, please, Tommy. I can’t— I need you to tell me that you forgive me."

Thomas looks like he’s going to deny it all, to say he has nothing to forgive, but something he see’s in Newt’s face must change his mind. He must see, must understand that this is what Newt needs. He doesn’t need excuses, he doesn’t need comfort or kindness. He needs to know that everything is okay.

"I forgive you," Thomas whispers. "And you forgive me too. I should have told you how I felt earlier."

Newt realises then in that moment that they’re both apologising to each other for the same thing.

"We’re pretty bloody pathetic, aren’t we?" Newt says.

Thomas laughs, a wet, teary laugh. Newt doesn’t think he’s ever seen Thomas cry, and the sight of glistening tears in those familiar eyes bring emotion to his own.

"Yes, we are," he speaks to fondly, so warm and kind and _Thomas._ "Can I kiss you?"

Newt blinks, his tears spilling. He feels so open, so raw and vulnerable.

"Yes, please," he whispers, afraid if he speaks too loud he’ll ruin the moment.

His blood is roaring in his ears when their lips meet.

 

_— tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i found it so hard to write sick!thomas. i have never had the flu so half of this probably was incorrect but oh well! thank you so much for all the support and loving you guys have given this story. words can not explain how much every single one of you readers and commenters mean to me. i love you all.
> 
> **updated and scene added (10-2-19)**


	6. here's to us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we are at the end! i'm actually so sad to be finishing this story, i am truly so in love with thomas and newt and minho and ALL OF THEM! i'm still so heartbroken that the films have finished, but i will not stop writing about my little angsty babies - so prepare for more stories about these precious angels! :)
> 
> i hope you enjoy <3
> 
>  **chapter title:** epilogue by keaton henson

******EPILOGUE**

Newt hates packing. He hates packing for holidays, he hates packing for college, and he hates packing for home. The stress of making sure you have everything you need makes him feel like tiny ants are crawling over his skin. It's not the same as anxiety. It's different ants, a different feeling. These ants are like an itch he can't scratch, more annoying than terrifying. But that's how Newt sees a lot of things now: annoying instead of terrifying.

The college year came to a fast end, and Newt still can't believe he made it through. A year ago, he was an anxiety-ridden mess who could barely form a sentence to anyone other than his mother and Sonya, and now, he is a totally different person.

College has done him good. The independence has pushed him, but so has the friends he's made. As much of a bunch of assholes they can be, their intentions are always good and they're truly the best group of people Newt has ever met.

He finds himself smiling as he shoves another book in his last bag. Packing up his whole dorm room has been hard, but at least he hasn't had to choose what he takes as he's taking it all. He's going to miss living with Minho, but he's going to love living with Thomas more.

The dorm room opens behind him, and Newt looks over his shoulder in time to see Minho barge through the threshold.

 _This is the last time I'll see that_ , he realises.

"Hey, shank," Minho greets, grinning. His bags are ready on his bed, packed and simple. He’s only got two left, as he’s been moving his stuff out in drips and drabs for weeks. "All ready?"

"Think so," Newt replies, nodding. "Excited for summer?"

"Shuck yeah. Beach, sun, alcohol and _girls_ ," Minho exclaims, waggling his eyebrows.

Newt rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I can tell you’re super excited to see your family."

Minho shrugs a hand. "Yeah. Them too."

"Jesus," Newt laughs, chest shaking. He looks at Minho’s bags, feeling a pang of something in his chest. "This is it, then."

Minho nods. "This is it."

They stand in silent for a moment, neither of them moving. And then, they surge forward together and hug. In the middle of the dorm room, Newt does the one thing he wouldn’t have imagined himself doing when he first met his best friend. And that’s what he considers Minho now, his best friend. His cocky, snarky, horrible, teasing best friend.

Minho claps his back, condemning it a proper 'man hug' (as Minho calls them), and pulls back. He looks Newt in the eye, and Newt suspects he can see a gaze of hesitance in his expression.

"I’m gonna miss you, Greenie. You’ve been a good room mate," he says.

Newt nods, chuckling. "Dito, Minho. Dito."

Minho nods, clapping his shoulder one last time before he steps back and grabs his two bags by their handles, one in each hand. "Don’t be a stranger, Greenie. If you want to meet up, ask Thomas to give you my address. I’m gonna miss your ugly face for the next eight weeks."

Newt rolls his eyes. "We’ll meet up, I promise. But no forest runs."

"Oh, _definitely_ a forest run," Minho smirks, laughing as Newt huffs. He heads towards the door, kicking it open with his foot and stepping out. He looks at Newt one last time, and Newt knows this is a harder goodbye than Minho is making it out. They’re not going to be room mates next year. Minho isn’t even coming back next year, as he’s moving to Pittsburg to work in an athletic centre as a personal trainer, his dream job.

"See ya, Minho," Newt says, lips tugging into a kind smile.

Minho nods, his demeanour changing to his usual, beaming self in a second. He straightens, winking, "Have a sucky summer without me, Greenie!"

His cackle of a laugh travels behind him as he disappears down the corridor.

Newt looks around the room one last time. He looks at the chipped walls and damaged paint, stained with tack-residue and sellotape marks. He looks at the old rickety desk he’s spent half of his year sitting at. He looks at the single bed by the door, the thin mattress and the plain bedsheets, and thinks of all the times him and Thomas have tried to both sleep in it, drunk and ridiculous and waking up either laying on top of each other, or one of them on the floor.

He’s smiling again, grinning like a giddy school girl, and Newt realises then how much of a freak he must look like, gazing around a empty room and smiling at old furniture. He checks his watch, and decides it’s finally time to head out. He grabs his bags, juggling them in two hands and along his arms, and walks out the door.

He doesn’t know how much next year is going to change. He’s not staying on campus, but instead in the loft with Thomas. Minho won’t be here, neither will Gally. He’s going to miss them both, despite them being the rudest of the group. Newt has never liked change, mostly because change means you’re losing something, and Newt doesn’t want to lose anything he has.

He skips through the campus, a bounce in his step and a jiggle in his heels. He’s ready to go home, and he’s ready to change.

He heads over to the dorm office on the other side of campus to hand back his key, and he spots Teresa in the line.

"Hey," he says, coming to stand next to her. The line isn’t moving, so he puts (drops) his bags on the floor with a relieved huff.

"Hey, yourself," Teresa replies, smiling. Her long hair is tied back in a messy ponytail, a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. She looks no different than she did before the accident at Christmas, when they got t-boned on their way home from the campus. Newt remember those days, when he first got with Thomas after he came back and abruptly announced his love for the younger teen, when him and Thomas would spend endless days and nights at Teresa’s bedside, watching her heal and making sure Thomas didn’t have a complete crisis.

It was a hard time. Thomas was a wreck, his ribs broken and working off a nasty concussion, and Teresa was more banged up than Newt has ever seen someone. Newt has never seen Thomas so vulnerable and fragile then he was in those times, even worse than when he was ill with he flu or when he showed Newt his scars on the ski trip. There were more panic attacks than Newt could count, more sleepless nights ruined by nightmares. Thomas flinched at every touch, coming close to losing Teresa shaking his to the core so much he was as frightened as a child. It had taken weeks and weeks before the old Thomas started to make a comeback, and then began the endless apologies and tearful moments when Thomas was worried he’d scared Newt off, made him think he’d started something he didn’t want to live with. Newt had called him ridiculous and shut him up with a kiss every time.

"God," Teresa groans, bringing Newt out of his thoughts. "I can’t wait to go home and sleep for six weeks."

Newt snorts. "It’s summer, Teresa. Aren’t you meant to be out?"

"God, no. Summer is the epitome of season satan. I prefer winter."

"Why, so you _can’t_ go out?"

"Exactly! Why would anyone like summer anyway? Who likes getting sweaty and slimy from sun screen, _oh_ , and the bugs!"

"You know, you are the last person I would expect to hate summer," Newt points out.

Teresa scoffs. "Don’t act so surprised. Summer is hard to enjoy when you’re a mosquito magnet and you burn like a cherry."

"You get sun burn?"

"Yes, after like five minutes in the damn sun!" Teresa huffs, "I have _every_ right to hate summer."

"It’s okay, I burn too," Newt shrugs. "You’ll see when me and Thomas come down. I’ll look like a cooked tomato too."

"Now _that_ doesn’t surprises me," Teresa laughs.

The line, moves so they pick up their bags and step with the crowd.

"So," Teresa starts, "other than necking it with my brother and travelling back and forth between here and Boston, what are your plans this summer?"

"Me and Thomas don’t 'neck it’," Newt protests with a grumble. "But my plans consist of reading, spending time with Thomas, my family, and you guys."

"Prepare yourself for a summer like no other, my friend," Teresa says, grinning. "Thomas and Minho’s summers consist of alcohol, parties, bonfires in gardens and skinny-dipping. You, are going to be terrified."

Newt rolls his eyes. He’ll do anything if he’s with Thomas, he is _that_ cliche.

He’s about to open his mouth, to reply with something witty, when a pair of arms wrap around his waist from behind. He jumps, but then a pair of lips gently press into his neck and he knows exactly who it is.

Newt melts back against the warmth pressed up against him, grinning like an idiot. He turns around, the arms around his waist never unlocking as he spins and comes face to face with the lips that were just pressed against his throat.

"Hello," Newt grins, chasing a kiss on the familiar lips.

They kiss back, their noses touching. So close Newt can feel the younger males heat seep into his won clothes. 

They break apart, slow and hesitant.

"Hi there," Thomas whispers, grinning from ear to ear. Their lips meet again, and Newt can feel the ball of ecstasy roll down his spine, hitting every ridge individually like their own shots of electricity bolting through him. Thomas makes him weak in the knees, and he wraps his arms around his neck to help him stay standing.

The sound of gagging makes them pull apart, arms still locked around each other but looking to their side.

Teresa grins, "Necking it."

Newt rolls his eyes, loosening his arms so they fall down to Thomas’ so he can hold his hand. "We’re not _necking it!"_

Teresa hums, evidently unconvinced.

"Have I missed something?" Thomas asks, looking between them. His hair is a mess, brown strands standing up in every direction, looking so fluffy and soft Newt has to force himself to answer with _words_ instead of run his fingers through it.

"Your sister is being annoying," Newt grumbles.

"When is she not?"

Teresa gasps, punching Thomas hard in the arm.

When they make it to the front of the line, they hand in their keys and head to the college exit. Thomas helps Newt carry his bags, their free hands holding one another. Newt has to resist grinning like a teenage girl the entire time. He can’t do this all summer: grinning like he’s high or giddy whenever him and Thomas touch. Even worse, he won’t have Teresa or Minho there to tell him when he’s doing it.

Teresa and Thomas hug goodbye just outside the campus, hugging for a long enough time that Newt feels like he should turn away to give them some privacy.

"Take care of him, Newt," Teresa says to him. "Don’t let him do anything stupid."

Thomas gasps in offence, and Newt grins, hugging him around his skinny middle and pressing himself firmly into his side. "I won’t. Promise."

Teresa grins. "Have fun, boys— but not too much fun!"

"Go away, T!" Thomas shouts, laughing as Teresa flips him off and strolls down the street.

Thomas watches her go for a moment, before he looks across and meets Newt’s eyes.

"Ready to go?" He asks.

Newt nods. He’s ready.

 

They catch the bus to Pennsylvania station. Thomas is coming to Boston with Newt to stay with him and his family, to finally meet his mother and have Sonya tease them for two, painful weeks. They collect their tickets and make their way down to the platform.

They place Newt’s bags on the floor and Thomas’ rucksack that he brought when he met Newt at the campus. Newt takes Thomas’ hand, causing the teen to look up from the floor where his eyes had laid, and Newt feels the air in his lungs leave when he meets the whiskey swirls. Despite how often he’s looked into Thomas’ eyes, he will never get used to the startlingly hypnotising colour, the mixture of brown and greens and hazels into one, one-of-a-kind cinnamon shade. Newt could recite endless streams of poetry about Thomas’ eyes, or the way his hair looks in certain lights or when he wakes up, or the way his lithe body moves with confidence when he walks. Newt has dreamed about his eyes, his hair, his body, he explored every inch of Thomas and it’s become a tireless sight. He feels like he’s exploring a new maze every time he sees him.

"Hey."

Newt blinks, and Thomas is there, giving his hand a squeeze.

"You okay?" He asks.

Newt nods, mouth stretching into a smile. He reaches across, pulling Thomas into him and kisses him on the lips.

Thomas kisses back, and suddenly Newt’s chest is flush against his own, Newt’s arms around his neck and Thomas’ hands framing his face.

They break apart, but don’t step away. Newt rests his forehead against Thomas’, breathing deeply to chase the breath he lost. He opens his eyes, their faces so close he can almost feel the touch of Thomas’ long eyelashes.

Newt doesn’t think he’s ever felt his happy. He can’t recall a time he’s ever felt this light, this warm and whole and invincible. Thomas makes his chest swell and heart beat faster than normal, he turns his blood into ecstasy and sparks his bones. The months he’s been with Thomas have been the best months of his life. He can still recall every night they have spent in Thomas’ apartment, cuddled up in his bed, facing each other in the dark. He thinks about the softness of the moments, the content silence they’d lay in, relishing in other each others company and feelings. He thinks about the times Thomas has talked him down from nightmares, and Newt doing the same for him. He thinks about how Thomas has been the one who’s given Newt his confidence, who’s made it bloom like a spring flower. Thomas is like a beacon light in the dark, the anchor that keeps Newt from floating away and the air that keeps him breathing when he’s drowning in his anxiety.

Thomas fits in his life like the puzzle piece that’s been missing for too long. He’s slotted in like he was made for him. Thomas has met Sonya, but he’s has never met Newt’s mother. They’ve only ever talked over the phone and Newt already knows his mother, who has never liked anyone Newt has liked, adores Thomas already without even meeting him. Newt isn’t surprised, but instead reminded again that it’s not just him who loves Thomas.

Thomas’ eyes open slowly, his thumbs stroking Newt’s cheeks. Thomas smiles, warm and kind and caring.

Newt will never get tired of seeing that smile.

He doesn’t realised the trains pulled up until Thomas’ eyes dart to the side, his face moving and he looks back at Newt to say, "Come on."

They grab the bags and they get on, the carriages mostly empty. They drop down in a table seat, each of them on opposite sides.

"It feels weird to be going home," Newt says, looking out the window. "I always get this train alone."

He feels something brush his hand, and he looks across to see Thomas leaning forward, one arm on the table and the other stretched across, hand holding his and stroking his thumb over Newt’s knuckles.

He smiles, "You know you don’t have to do this alone anymore."

"I know," Newt replies. "I’m really happy you’re here."

Thomas’ smile grows impossibly wider, and he’s leaning across the table to meet Newt’s lips in the middle.

Newt gets lost again, mind reeling and sense out the window at the feeling of Thomas’ lips against his, his tongue touching his, the taste of lingering coffee and nicotine sharp in his own mouth. When they pull away, Thomas’ lips are red and slightly swollen, and the sight does something to Newt.

"I can’t believe I survived a whole year of college," Newt whispers, never looking away from Thomas. "I never thought I’d be able to do it."

'But you did," Thomas murmurs, lips tugging in a soft smile. "You can do anything."

"I still can’t ski."

Thomas snorts, "No. _That_ you cannot do. Maybe we should go again, though."

"Why? Do you enjoy watching me face-plant snow mountains?"

"Would you slap me if I said yes?"

"No," Newt replies. "Just make you sleep on the floor tonight."

Thomas throws his head back and laughs, and Newt can’t look away. He looks at the thin stretch of pale neck, the slope of his wide shoulders.

Newt dozes off minutes after the train pulls out of the station. When he opens his eyes again, the sun is beaming through the train window, shining directly down on Thomas opposite him, who has his sketchbook out on his folded knees. Newt closes his eyes for another moment, just to take in the sound of the quiet moans of the train and the pencil scratching the paper, before he opens them again and just watches.

Thomas’ face is a rarity when he’s drawing. It’s not like when he’s sleeping; peaceful, lax, innocent, but it’s different to when he’s awake and doing other things. He has this careless posture to him, but also this closed expression, as if he’s shutting out anything and everything happening around him. He’s in his own small world, and its the only world Newt isn’t going to attempt to join.

Thomas looks up, and he seems startled when he finds Newt awake. His cheeks blush suddenly, mouth forming a small 'o', and Newt knows exactly what is happening.

"You’re drawing me, aren’t you?" He smirks.

Thomas’ blush glows a vigorous red, expanding down his neck and to the tips of his ears. He looks suddenly shy, but he’s smiling.

"Let me see."

Thomas places the sketchpad down, spinning it so it’s facing Newt.

Newt will never get tired of seeing Thomas’ drawings. He’s blown away every single time, mind sometimes unable to fantom how he’s managed to draw something so beautiful, so realistic. He captured every detail, every feature. Every angle looks perfect, every hair looks real.

"You’ve made me look prettier than I am," Newt observes, smiling. He isn’t sure if he’s lying or not, but he loves the way Thomas rolls his eyes playfully.

"Don’t be ridiculous," Thomas murmurs, soft and relaxed. He reaches across the table, taking Newt’s hand in his own and bringing it to his lips. He places a gentle, slow kiss to his knuckles, before he keeps them resting there for a moment, eyes on his drawing. Newt can see the calculating pinch in his eyebrows. He’s judging his own work - something else Newt has learnt about Thomas is that he never believes anything he does is quite perfect.

"It’s beautiful," Newt tells him before he can change anything.

Thomas looks up at him, his big eyes latching Newt’s. "So are you."

Newt’s cheeks heat up instantly. He wants to look away, but he can’t force himself. Instead, it’s his turn to lean across and kiss Thomas. So he does.

He wants to giggle like a school girl. He feels love drunk, as if anything outside of the train carriage isn’t real. He feels like him and Thomas are truly the only people in the world, as if they can stay like this forever.

When they break apart, Newt gets up, rounds the table and sits down on the bench next to Thomas. Thomas grins at him, and Newt presses into his side, kissing his shoulder.

"How long was I asleep for?" He asks.

"Barely an hour," Thomas replies.

Newt nods and grabs his rucksack from under the table, fishing out his book. He finally managing to read _Little Women_ (recommendation of Thomas’), and he’s determined to finish it before he gets home so he can finally tell his mother he’s read it.

He reads while Thomas continues to sketch and shade the drawing of him, and it’s not long before Newt, almost entirely engrossed in his book, feels a weight against his side and on his shoulder. He looks away from the pages to find a brown mope of curls sitting on his shoulder and he realises Thomas has fallen asleep on him.

He grins, feeling warm inside. He takes the pencil from Thomas’ lax fingers and pushes the pad into the middle of the table so it has no chance of falling off (and then falling apart, as the thing is hanging together by a thin thread of the spine and pages tucked into one another). He shifts them both so he has one around curled around Thomas’ neck and shoulders, making it more comfortable for the younger boy to lean on him entirely. He goes back to reading, feeling an odd sense of value that Thomas is the one leaning on _him_. More often than not, it’s Newt leaning for support on Thomas and it’s times like this, when Newt can finally feel like the anchor and the support, that he knows he can truly be there for Thomas.

Thomas wakes up just after Newt finishes _Little Women,_ and the younger boy grins through Newt’s entire rant about the lack of justice for the characters and how the book is 'beautifully cruel'.

"How could you recommend that to me?" Newt exclaims.

Thomas laughs at him. "It’s a good book. It’s a classic!"

"It is a horrible, _horrible_ book! I can’t believe Louisa killed off Beth! I just— she can’t— Beth—!"

"Aww," Thomas coos, holding his hand. "Classics are normally tragedies, Newt. It what teaches us that life has never had happy endings. Think about the other girls, though. They all lived."

"Psh, but Beth didn’t! And Amy’s daughter was sick!"

"But they all fell in love, and the ending scene is so beautiful. They’re all together and they’re all happy."

Newt rolls his eyes. "I hate that book."

Thomas laughs, stroking his knuckles. "The joys of reading."

"I can’t unread what I just read," Newt whines. "I don’t think I can ever move on from this."

"So you can handle _Birdsong_ , which is a detailed book about the brutality of war, but you can’t handle _Little Women_?"

Newt rolls his eyes. "I was like this to begin with _Birdsong_ , but the book was so amazing I kept reading it until the story became familiar and not to scary."

"Then read _Little Women_ again."

"Fuck _no!"_

The train pulls into the South Station, Boston, four hours after they got on the train in New York. They climb off, juggling their bags and head out to street to wait for his mother and Sonya to pick them up.

As they stand on the sidewalk, Thomas texts Teresa to tell her they’ve got there safe and sound.

Newt looks around, trying to spot his mother or Sonya’s bright blonde hair in the crowd of people on the busy streets, when suddenly his heart drops.

 _No,_ he tells himself _It can’t be_.

His breath is stolen suddenly and he’s stumbling. Hands grab him and hold him up. His vision is spinning and he can’t hear anything over the roar of blood pulsing in his ears. Hands are touching his hands, his arms, his face.

Suddenly he’s off the street and in a quiet alley just beside the station. Newt snaps into reality, everything suddenly coming into focus like an adjusted camera. Thomas is in front of him, he’s on the floor, head between his knees. His chest is so tight, his lungs are frozen. He can’t breathe.

"—wt. Newt, baby. Please, come back to me. Breathe, Newt."

Thomas’ voice is so loud just so quiet. He sounds so close but so far away, like he’s only just out of reach.

Newt can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe what he _saw._

 _It’s not real,_ he has to remind himself. _It_ can’t _be real._

All of a sudden, as if something has loosened the ropes around his lungs, he manages to draw in a ragged, cold breath. Oxygen floods his lungs with a sudden punch, and all the fog in his mind clears in an instant.

"Newt?"

He lifts his head, and the world spins for a moment before it falls to Thomas.

Thomas, who looks sick with worry and panic, his eyes wide and frightened.

_I did that. I made him look like that._

"Hey, look at me," a voice whispers, a hand tightening on his own.

He didn’t even realise he looked away until he looks up again, meeting those big brown eyes.

"What happened, Newt?" Thomas asks, and Newt knows he has every right to ask.

Normally, they don’t ask. If one of them wakes up from a nightmare, the other doesn’t ask. If they want to talk, they will talk. If they have a panic attack, they don’t ask, they wait for the other to feel ready enough to talk.

But now, Thomas has to ask, and Newt can’t even be mad. He just broke into a sudden panic attack on the street, bad enough that Thomas had to physically drag him away without him even realising he was being moved.

"I. . ." his voice scrapes in a croak. He coughs, and suddenly a half-open bottle of water from the train is shoved under his nose. He drinks greedily. "I think. . . I thought I saw G-George."

The single word sends a shiver down his spine.

"Oh, Newt," Thomas whispers, and now he looks sad. _Really_ sad. "You know it wasn’t him, it _couldn’t_ have been him."

"I know," Newt rasps, nodding. He has tears in his eyes, and he’s fighting so hard not to let them fall. He doesn’t want to cry. "I know it couldn’t be him."

Cool, soft hands cup his cheeks. Thomas is right in front of him, so close he’s practically sitting between Newt’s knees.

"You’re okay now, Newt," he says. "He can’t hurt you anymore. You know that. He’s gone, and you have nothing to worry about anymore."

Newt nods. He knows - he’s known since he heard the news from Sonya that George had died in a hit and run four months ago. He didn’t even feel a pang of sympathy, or regret, or even sadness. He felt relief, so much relief that he cried because how could something so wrong feel so right? Thomas had been the one assuring him that feeling relief wasn’t wrong, that George got exactly what he deserved, and Newt shouldn’t feel bad for being happy that he’s gone.

"I’m sorry," Newt whispers, wiping his cheeks viciously to catch the tears threatening to fall. "I didn’t mean to freak out."

Thomas smiles at his gently. "You don’t need to apologise, Newt."

"I feel so pathetic."

"You’re anything but pathetic," Thomas assures him. "Do I need to remind you of the time I thought I saw my father in that shopping mall and you guys found me six hours later in Teresa’s apartment, a shaking mess?"

Newt nods. "We’re both a bit fucked up, aren’t we?"

Thomas laughs, leaning forward to place a slow, simple kiss on his lips. Newt deepens it, relishing in the feeling.

When they break apart, Thomas doesn’t move far away. They sit on the dingy alleyway floor, Thomas between his legs.

"You know," Thomas starts, linking their fingers together. "Sometimes I wish George was still alive, just so I could teach him a lesson for hurting you so bad."

That makes Newt laugh."How exactly would you teach him a lesson?"

"I. . . I don’t know," Thomas shrugs innocently. "Punch him?"

Newt grins, "I can’t imagine you punching anyone."

"Hey! I can punch!"

"I’m sure you can, I just can’t imagine you doing it. You’re too soft, too kind."

"Way to boost my masculinity," Thomas replies dryly.

Newt laughs, "You’re welcome."

They kiss again, and Newt doesn’t want to stop when Thomas pulls away and says they should go back on the street incase his mother and Sonya are there. Newt nods, and they get up together to head back out onto the street. Newt wants to know how Thomas managed to get him, a panicking Newt and all of their bags into the alley in one trip, but he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs Thomas’ hand and smiles.

Sonya is waiting on the street. She spots them in an instant, grinning so wide and bright it’s almost blinding. She ditches their mother on the sidewalk, pushing through the Boston commuters and running towards them in a flurry of blonde hair. She drags them both into a tight, sudden hug, squishing them both into her.

"I missed you both so much!" She exclaims, practically squeaking. She jumps up and down, her arms practically noosed around their necks.

"Didn’t you miss me more?" Newt protests, "I’m your brother!"

Sonya lets them go, beaming. "Yes, but it’s _Thomas_!"

Newt rolls his eyes, and his mother is there suddenly, pulling him for a hug.

"Hey, mum," he murmurs in her ear.

"Hello, sweetie," she whispers back, hugging hard.

When they pull apart, his mothers eyes instantly fall on Thomas.

"You must be Thomas," she says.Newt doesn’t get a chance to feel nervous before his mother is yanking Thomas in for a hug, wrapping her small arms around him and cutting off his 'Hello'.

The hug lasts a long time, and when she pulls back, she cups his cheeks and coos, "You’re just as cute as Newt described."

"Mum!" Newt squeaks, cheeks heating up.

Thomas flashes Newt a grin. "Thank you, Miss Newton."

"Please, call me Erica," his mother smiles. "No need for formalities, Thomas. You’re practically family now."

They walk down the sidewalk to the car. Thomas is a step ahead with his mother, her arm linked through his. They’re chatting away, and Newt doesn’t stop watching, even when Sonya slides into step next to him.

"He’s a good one, y’know," she starts, watching them.

"Yeah," Newt says, smiling, "he is."

"You deserve him, Newt," Sonya adds, "You deserve something this good."

Newt is still convinced he is not a normal teenager. He still lacks control, still lacks the navigation in his life, but he's learnt that no matter how hard he holds the steering wheel, life will go whichever what it wants. He lets it go now, let's it all run its course freely.

Newt watches his mother and Thomas, and as if he knows they’re talking about him, Thomas looks over his shoulder, flashing Newt a blinding, kind, soft smile that makes Newt’s heart jump in his chest.

 _You deserve something good,_ Newt tells himself, _and you already have it._

 

_— fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much <3


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